'-"V// 


M 


ENJOYING   LIFE 

AND   OTHER  LITERARY   REMAIN;*: 


Enjoying  Life 

AND  OTHER  LITERARY  REMAINS 

OF 

W.  N.  P.  BARBELLION 


"  /  love  everything,  and  detest  one  thin^  only — the 
hopeless  itnprisonment  of  my  being  within  a  single 
arbitrary  form,  .  .  ," — Amiul. 


NEW    YORK 

George  H.   Doran  Company 


PREFACE 

The  ungrudging  tributes  paid  by  most  of  its  critics  to 
Mr.  W.  N.  P.  Barbellion's  "Journal  of  a  Disappointed 
Man,"  and  the  interest  confessed  by  many  readers  in 
the  personahty  of  the  author,  with  inquiries  for  more 
of  his  writings,  if  any  might  exist,  encouraged  his 
friends  to  release  for  publication  some  examples  ot 
the  work  of  Barbellion  as  a  naturalist  and  a  man  of 
letters. 

"  The  Journal  Essays "  in  this  collection  are 
from  the  original  journal,  which  extends  to  over 
twenty  post  quarto  volumes  in  manuscript.  It  was  at 
first  intended  that  these  essays  should  be  included  in 
the  published  journal,  but  they  were  omitted  then  in 
order  to  bring  the  first  book  within  reasonable  dimen- 
sions. The  rest  of  this  new  volume  is  made  up  of 
contributions  to  various  periodicals  and  of  other 
essays  now  published  for  the  first  time.  They  cover 
the  period  from  1905,  when  Barbellion  was  16  years 
old,  to  191 7,  and  they  dispose  finally  of  suggestions 
which  have  been  made  that  the  "  Journal  of  a  Disap- 
pointed Man"  was  not  authentic  but  the  work  of 
Mr.  H.  G.  Wells,  who  wrote  the  generous  introduction. 

Barbellion  is  of  course  a  pseudonym,  as  Mr.  Wells 


437194 


vi  PREFACE 

himself  pointed  out  in  a  letter  to  the  W estminster 
Gazette,  and,  with  the  publication  of  these  essays,  it 
is  open  to  anyone  with  sufficient  curiosity  to  refer  to 
the  original  sources  and  discover  the  real  name, 
already  known  to  Barbellion's  friends.  The  final 
section  contains  so  much  of  Barbellion's  writings  on 
natural  history  as  may  be  of  interest  to  the  inexpert 
reader.  These  are  quite  apart  from  his  scientific 
memoirs,  about  thirty  in  number,  that  appeared  in 
such  journals  as  the  Zoologist,  the  Annals  and 
Magazine  of  Natural  History  and  the  Proceedings  of 
the  Zoological  Society  of  London.  Barbellion  was 
not  an  academic  student,  and  his  attitude  to  those 
whose  minds  run  along  channels  of  dry  formulae  is 
suggestively  set  out  in  "  The  Scarabee  Monographed." 
He  did  not  allow  his  interest  in  biology  to  dull  the 
edge  of  his  perpetual  wonder  and  his  sense  of  beauty. 
He  was  full,  when  occasion  demanded  it,  of  compact 
but  unappealing  forms  of  scientific  description;  but 
his  deepest  motive  was  his  passion  for  a  knowledge  of 
life.  That  gave  humanity  to  his  researches,  and  in 
his  writings  transfigured  science  with  beauty.  "  Bees, 
poppies,  and  swallows,"  he  wrote,  "  and  all  they  mean 
to  him  who  knows  " ;  they  meant  more  to  him  than  to 
most  men.  He  went  out  among  the  birds,  and  was 
too  much  taken  with  the  beauty  of  the  woods  to  do 
any  nesting.  He  dissected  a  sea-urchin,  and  was  much 
excited  over  his  first  view  of  Aristotle's  "  lantern." 


PREFACE  vii 

"These    complicated    pieces    of    animal    mechanism 
never  smell  of  musty   age  after  aeons  of  evolution." 
His  imagination  was  fired,  and  there  was,  so  to  say, 
the  flush  of  dawn  over  every  glowing  investigation. 
He  interrogated  nature  with  a  fierce  inquisitiveness 
which  inflamed  his  approach  to  everything  that  came 
within  the  survey  of  his  finely-tempered  mind,  and  all 
was    subjected    to    the    "  acid    test "    of    intellectual 
integrity.     That  was  his  outstanding  characteristic. 
He  never  shirked  a  fact,  ignored  a  consequence,  or 
feared  a  conclusion.     He  faced   them,  one  by  one, 
squarely    and    boldly.      He    gripped    life    by    the 
shoulders,  his  keen  eyes  steadily  searched  its  enig- 
matic  countenance,   stare   for   stare,    and   he   gazed 
profoundly    into    its    depths.      It    exasperated    him, 
enthralled   him,  baffled   him.     He  saw  its   joys,   its 
loveliness,  its  irony,  its  perplexities.     He  traced  the 
comedy  of  it.    He  lived  the  tragedy  of  it.    He  com- 
bined   uncompromising    exactness    of    inquiry    with 
spiritual  apprehension  of  the  indefinable.     For  that 
reason  he  devoted  himself  to  science  humbly,  almost 
with  reverence;  and  he  buckled  on  all  his  armour  for 
the  great  task. 

Concurrently  with  his  unaided  zoological  studies 
he  developed  a  shrewd  interest  in  literature,  and  these 
two  sides  of  his  complex  personality  seemed  to 
struggle  for  ascendancy.  The  heroes  of  his  boyhood 
were   Huxley   and   R.   L.   Stevenson,   and   they  had 


viii  PREFACE 

places  of  equal  honour  on  his  bookshelf.  Francis 
Thompson's  glowing  verse — particularly  his  lyrics  on 
the  daisy  and  the  poppy — competed  with  Wilson  on 
"The  Cell."  lie  was  poring  over  Hardy's  novels, 
reading  them  almost  in  series  one  after  another,  while 
he  was  studying  Lang's  "  Comparative  Anatomy  of 
the  Invertebrates."  Samuel  Butler's  "Note  Books" 
was  his  bedside  tonic.  He  found  sympathetic  reading, 
in  the  Russian  novelists.  He  appreciated  the  hilarious 
philosophy  of  Chesterton's  "  Manalive  "  as  keenly  as 
the  sombre  stuff  of  Dostoievsky  and  Turgeniel^.  His 
knowledge  of  biography  and  of  journal  writers  was 
remarkable.  His  private  correspondence  —  like  his 
diary — was  rich  with  literary  allusions,  frequently  the 
most  out-of-the-way  detail.  His  reading  was  wide, 
and  his  views  on  books  had  a  distinct  flavour  of 
originality  and  a  "  bite  "  all  their  own.  He  staggered 
and  stimulated  you  in  the  same  breath.  He  set  Jane 
Austen  laughing  at  Gibbon's  autobiography,  and  he 
sang  to  himself  Moore's  "Row  gently  here,  my 
gondolier,"  In  his  brilliant  fancy  a  movement  of 
Beethoven's  Fifth  Symphony  was  "  an  epileptic  vision 
or  an  opium  dream — Dostoievsky  or  De  Quincey  set 
to  music."  He  loved  Charles  Lamb.  He  read 
Nietzsche  and  felt  "  a  perfect  mastiff."  He  plunged 
into  literature  fuU-heartedly  and  searched  for  any 
glimpse  of  life  or  psychology  of  living.  He  found  life 
in  literature  as  he  found  it  in  science,  and  what  one 


PREFACE  ix 

failed  to  give  him  the  other  supplied.  His  essays, 
zoological  and  literary — published  or  unpublished — 
are  packed  with  illustrations  and  comparisons  from 
every  kind  of  source.  They  indicate  the  extent  of  his 
acquirements  and  the  ramifications  of  his  interests. 
This  is  apparent  in  "  The  Passion  for  Perpetuation," 
which  is  also  an  illuminating  example  of  his  general 
attitude  towards  the  facts  and  riddles  of  existence. 
It  holds  suggestive  thought  and  analysis,  it  throbs 
with  a  whirlwind  desire  for  experience  and  adventure, 
and  it  reveals  the  bigness  of  his  personality.  He  is 
frequently  looking  out  from  the  mountain-tops,  pro- 
jecting himself  across  the  ages,  and  flinging  his 
imagination  among  the  planets.  "  Let  us  not  be 
niggardly,"  he  says,  "  over  our  planet,  or  ourselves." 

When  his  open-air  spirit  had  to  taste  the  close 
atmosphere  of  officialdom  at  the  British  Aluseum  and 
his  natural  buoyancy  v/as  depressed,  it  seemed  likely 
that,  before  long,  he  would  turn  to  literature  with  his 
whole  mind,  though  his  enthusiasm  for  the  country- 
side could  never  have  died.  Even  in  the  "  Scarabee 
Monographed "  he  writes  indulgently  of  the  dry-as- 
dust,  and  he  is  continually  pulling  himself  up,  so  that 
one  cannot  reach  a  definite  conclusion  of  what  he 
really  thinks  of  the  Scarabee.  Any  Scarabee  could 
win  his  heart  by  quoting  "  The  beautiful  swallows — 
be  kind  to  them."  He  had  many  literary  schemes  in 
project,  and  his  mind  seemed  to  be  focussing  away 


X  PREFACE 

from  the  scientific  on  to  the  literary.  But  inexorable 
fate  swept  aside  every  choice  and  every  power  of 
fulfilment. 

My  belief  is  that  Barbellion's  first  promptings  to 
natural  history  are  to  be  found  in  Kingsley's  "  Water 
Babies,"  which  was  read  to  him  when  he  was  too 
young  to  read  it  himself,  or  even  to  speak  plainly. 
Later,  he  puzzled  through  "  Madam  How  and  Lady 
Why  ";  one  day  the  sight  of  a  thrush's  nest  stirred  his 
soul,  and  soon  his  child's  mind  was  fully  captivated. 
His  concentration  and  determination  were  astonishing. 
His  diary  contains  a  mass  of  records  on  nests  dis- 
covered, birds  observed,  and  experiments  carried  out. 
There  was  no  limit  to  his  energies.  He  had  the 
schoolboy's  exultation  in  his  egg  cabinet,  his  pigeons, 
doves  and  rabbits,  and  a  joy  still  more  precious, 
because  it  clearly  signified  the  early  promise  of  his 
inquiring  zeal,  in  his  well-constructed  ants'  nest,  his 
ingenious  labyrinth  of  orientating  newts,  and  his 
sleeping  bats  withdrawn  in  more  than  one  perilous 
adventure  from  the  deep  recesses  of  a  disused  mine. 
He  skinned  a  mole  and  cured  the  skin,  stuffed  a 
squirrel  and  glazed  and  painted  a  case  for  it.  He 
spent  all  he  could  get  on  the  purchase  of  books  and 
instruments.  Assiduously  he  built  up  a  library.  At 
eleven  years  of  age  he  wrote  to  me  "  You  know  my 
bookshelf  where  there  were  only  six  books — well,  it's 
now  half  full."     He  made  use  of  the  attic,  the  out- 


PREFACE  xi 

house,  even  the  kitchen,  for  housing  specimens  under 
observation.  He  would  race  home  after  school  for  an 
early  tea  specially  prepared  by  Martha,  the  maid,  and 
would  tramp  miles  among  the  garlic-scented  orchards 
and  through  the  wildest  parts  of  the  country,  return- 
ing often  after  dark  with  home  lessons  still  to  be 
tackled.  Martha,  who  worshipped  him,  begrudged 
him  no  mess  or  muddle.  He  was  treated  by  her,  as 
by  his  parents,  with  an  indulgence  shown  to  no  other 
member  of  the  family.  As  a  boy  he  was  contributing 
articles  to  The  Countryside,  whose  editor  predicted 
that  he  would  make  his  name.  He  taught  himself  how 
to  dissect,  and  afterwards,  his  patient  and  unerring 
skill  surprised  his  incredulous  examiners.  Scientists 
and  naturalists  of  repute — reading  his  published 
records  of  observations — called  upon  him  and  were 
puzzled  to  find  him  a  mere  boy.  He  taught  himself 
enough  German  to  read  the  text-books.  Day  after 
day,  with  his  devoted  spaniel,  he  went  out  on  expedi- 
tions over  the  hills,  across  the  sand  dunes,  or  along 
the  marshes  of  a  magnificent  estuary  that  always 
made  a  special  appeal  to  his  imagination.  He 
invented  all  manner  of  makeshift  contrivances,  and 
exercised  adroitness  in  overcoming  obstacles.  His 
importunities  at  a  small  library  resulted  in  the  build- 
ing up  of  the  nucleus  of  a  modern  collection  of 
scientific  books  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  size  of  the 
town  and  the  tastes  of  its  people.     The  librarian  was 


xii  PREFACE 

a  kindly  botanist,  who  succeeded   in  getting  many 
new  books  that  Barbellion  wanted. 

The  consuming  passion  of  his  life  was  almost  too 
violent  for  his  delicate  physique,  but  his  terrifying 
will  power  refused  to  be  baulked.  By  sheer  personal 
force,  and  with  no  outside  help,  he  won  his  way 
against  trained  competition  to  the  British  Museum. 
What  he  had  worked  for  and  lived  for,  with  such 
keen  anticipation,  proved  a  deadening  disappoint- 
ment. Nevertheless,  he  achieved  solid  results  as  an 
official  zoologist,  and  of  these  Mr.  Wells  has  said 
elsewhere  :  "  His  scientific  work  is  not  only  full  and 
exact,  but  it  has  those  literary  qualities,  the  grace,  the 
power  of  handling,  the  breadth  of  reference  which 
have  always  distinguished  the  best  biological  work. 
...  In  him  biological  science  loses  one  of  the  most 
promising  of  its  recent  recruits." 

So  far  as  I  know,  his  outdoor  studies  virtually 
ended  with  his  appointment  in  the  Museum.  But  I 
have  a  vision  of  him  in  191 2,  during  a  holiday 
snatched  from  its  dingy  Departments,  as  he  started 
off  for  dredging  operations,  loaded  with  all  kinds  of 
tackle,  smoking  a  cigarette,  grinning  at  our  amuse- 
ment, and  looking  as  happy  as  a  man  could  be.  He 
could  impart  his  nature  knowledge  in  a  fascinating 
way  to  those  who  showed  a  genuine  interest,  and  he 
was  delightful  company  on  a  ramble  across  country  or 
in  a  lazy  stroll  by  the  sea  coast,  though  if  he  detected 


PREFACE  xiii 

a  merely  formal  attention  which  seemed  possibly  a 
polite  concession  to  his  interests,  he  withdrew  like  a 
sea  anemone  at  the  touch.    Scrambling  over  the  rocks 
with  him  on  a  brilliant  spring  day  and  wandering 
among  his  beloved  rock-pools,  I  had  a  picture  which 
has  never  left  my  memory.     Upon  one  of  the  pools 
the  sun  was  shining,  and  kindling  every  liquid  colour 
to  sparkling  hues.    A  squid,  like  a  glorious  iridescent 
torpedo,  was  gliding  to  and  fro  in  perfect  motion,  and 
as  we  downward  gazed  he  told  me  its  life-story  with 
such  deft  strokes  of  happy  illustration,  that  the  recol- 
lection has  given  romance  to  every  rock-pool  I  have 
ever  looked  into  since.    His  diary  is  full  of  descriptive 
cameos  like  that  which  was  given  to  me,  and  I  regret 
to   think   that,   in   steeling  himself  to   compress  his 
journal  wdthin  self-prescribed  limits  for  publication,  he 
omitted  so  many  of  these  beautiful  little  studies. 

"  Bees,  poppies,  and  swallows,  and  all  they  mean  to 
him  who  knows." 

This  introduction  is  in  no  sense  intended  to  be  a 
critical  estimate  of  Barbellion's  writings.  One  stands 
too  near  to  him  for  that.  It  is  intended  as  a  personal 
appreciation  so  far  as  it  seems  to  bear  upon  the 
contents  of  the  book.  Nor  is  this  the  place  for  a 
general  estimate  of  his  arresting  and  powerful  indi- 
viduality. Yet  it  is  impossible  to  resist  the  impulse 
to  say  of  him,  in  pride  and  affection,  that  through  life 
he  played  a  fi.ne  game, 

H.  xC  C, 


CONTENTS 


JOURNAL   ESSAYS 

PAGB 

ENJOYING    LIFE 

3 

CRYING   FOR   THE   MOON 

21 

INSULATION    OF   THE    EGO 

43 

INFINITIES 

57 

ESSAYS 

ON    JOURNAL   WRITERS 

THE    PASSION    FOR    PERPETUATION  89 

POSSESSION  107 

ON    AMIEL   AND   SOME   OTHERS  II3 

AN    AUTUMN    STROLL  I  23 

TWO   SHORT   STORIES 

A    FOOL    AND    A    MAID    ON    LUNDY    ISLAND  131 

HOW   TOM    SNORED    ON    HIS    BRIDAL   NIGHT  1 39 

ESSAYS   IN    NATURAL   HISTORY 

SPALLANZANI  1 53 

COLONEL    MONTAGU  171 

ROUSSEAU    AS    BOTANIST  1 83 


xvi  CONTENTS 

rAGK 

THE   SCARABEE    MONOGRAPHED  193 

NEW    METHODS    IN    NATURAL    HISTORY  207 
CURIOUS   FACTS  IN   THE   GEOGRAPHICAL   DISTRIBUTION 

OF    BRITISH    NEWTS  225 

BIRD    ROOSTS    AND    ROUTES  23I 

THE    ''animated    NATURE  "  239 


JOURNAL    ESSAYS 


ENJOYING  LIFE 

I. 

June,  1914. — When  I  awoke,  a  glance  towards  the 
window  told  me  tPiat  outside  it  had  already  happened 
— the  sun  was  up  !  humming  along  through  a  cloudless 
sky  full  of  bees  and  skylarks.  I  shut  my  eyes  and 
buried  my  nose  in  the  pillow — awake  sufficiently  to 
realize  that  another  great  day  had  dawned  for  me 
while  I  slept. 

I  lay  still  for  a  moment  in  luxurious  anticipation 
and  listened  to  a  tiny  joy,  singing  within  like  the 
voice  of  a  girl  in  the  distance,  until  at  last  great  waves 
of  happiness  roared  through  my  heart  like  sea-horses. 
I  jumped  out  of  bed,  flung  on  my  dressing-gown,  and 
went  off  across  the  meadow  to  bathe  in  the  stream.  In 
the  water  I  plunged,  and  struggled  and  kicked  with  a 
sensuous  delight  in  its  coldness  and  in  every  contrac- 
tion of  a  muscle,  glad  to  be  nude  and  clean  and  cool 
among  the  dragonflies  and  trout.  I  clambered  to  a 
rock  in  midstream  on  which  I  rested  in  a  moment  of 
expansion,    relaxed    in    every    tissue.       The    current 


4  ENJOYING  LIFE 

rocked  one  foot  in  the  water,  and  the  sun  made  every 
cell  in  my  body  vibrate.  Upstream,  a  dipper  sang 
.  .  .  and  surely  nothing  but  happiness  could  ever 
enter  life  again  !  Neither  the  past  nor  the  future 
existed  for  me  any  more,  but  only  the  glorious  and  all- 
absorbing  present.  I  put  my  whole  being  into  the 
immediate  ticking  hour  with  its  sixty  minutes  of 
precious  life,  and  catching  each  pearl  drop  as  it  fell, 
said  :  "  Now  my  happiness  is  complete,  and  now,  and 
now."  I  lay  thus  for  I  know  not  how  long,  centuries 
perhaps,  for  down  in  the  silent  well  of  our  existence 
time  is  not  reckoned  by  the  clock,  nor  our  abiding  joy 
in  idle,  obstinate  words.  Then  I  rubbed  down  with  a 
hard  towel — how  I  loved  my  cool,  pink  skin  ! — and 
stood  a  moment  in  the  shade  of  the  pine  trees,  still 
unembarrassed  by  a  single  demoralizing  garment.  I 
was  free,  immaculate,  untouched  by  anything  coarser 
than  the  soft  morning  air  around  and  the  moss  in  the 
turf  that  supported  the  soles  of  my  feet. 

In  the  afternoon,  I  strode  over  the  hills  in  a  spirit 
of  burning  exultation.  The  moors  rolled  to  the  sea 
infinitely  far  and  the  sea  to  the  horizon  infinitely 
wide.  I  opened  both  arms  and  tried  to  embrace  the 
immensity  of  that  windswept  space  through  sheer  love 
of  it.  The  wind  roared  past  my  ears  and  through  my 
hair.  Overhead  a  herring  gull  made  use  of  the  air 
currents  and  soared  on  motionless  wings.  Verily,  the 
flight  of  a  gull  is  as  magnificent  as  the  Andes !     No 


ENJOYING  LIFE  5 

other  being  save  myself  was  in  sight.  If  I  had  chanced 
to  meet  someone  I  should  have  greeted  him  with  the 
question  that  was  stinging  the  tip  of  my  tongue, 
"  What  does  it  all  mean  and  what  do  you  think  ?" 
And  he,  of  course,  after  a  moment's  puzzled  reflection, 
would  have  answered  :  "  It  means  nout,  tho'  I  think  us 
could  do  with  a  change  of  Government."  But  so 
excited  as  to  be  heedless  of  his  reply,  I  should  have 
followed  up,  in  the  grand  manner,  with  :  "  Whence  do 
we  come  and  whither  do  we  go  ?"  or  "  Tell  me  where 
have  you  lived,  what  countries  have  you  seen  ?  Which 
is  your  favourite  mountain  ?  Do  you  like  thunder- 
storms or  sunsets  best  ?  How  many  times  have  you 
been  in  love,  and  what  about  God  ?" 

At  night,  I  turned  homewards,  flushed  and  excited 
with  the  day's  life,  going  to  bed  unwillingly  at  last 
and  even  depressed  because  the  day  was  at  an  end 
and  I  must  needs  put  myself  into  a  state  of  uncon- 
sciousness while  the  earth  itself  is  never  asleep,  but 
always  spins  along  amid  the  stars  with  its  precious 
human  freightage.  To  lose  a  single  minute  of  con- 
scious life  in  sleep  seemed  a  real  loss  ! 

II. 

June,  igi^. — I  like  all  things  which  are  swift  or  im- 
mense— lightning,  Popocatapetl,  London,  Roosevelt ! 

So,  anyhow,  I  like  to  think  in  periods  of  ebullience 
when  wind  and  sun  beat  down  upon  the  face  and  the 


6  ENJOYING  LIFE 

blood  races  along  the  arteries.  We  live  in  an  age  of 
hustle  and  speed.  We  sweep  fronn  one  end  of  the 
country  to  the  other  by  rail,  'plane,  and  motor,  and 
the  quidnunc  querulously  complains,  "  Too  much  rush- 
ing about  nowadays  and  too  little  thinking."  Yet 
does  he  think  we  ought  to  remain  at  home  arranging 
the  Cosmos  with  Lotze  or  William  James,  while 
Hamel  gets  into  an  aeroplane  on  the  neighbouring 
heath  and  shows  us  how  to  loop  the  loop  ?  Must  I  be 
improving  my  mind  with  sociological  ruminations 
while  the  herring  fleet  is  ready  to  take  me  out  to  the 
deep  sea  ?  The  speed,  ferocity,  and  dash  of  the 
London  street  full  of  cars,  and  strenuous,  sleek,  top- 
hatted  gentlemen  and  raddled  women,  is  most  exhil- 
arating. Londoners  must  enjoy  a  perpetual  exhilara- 
tion. Like  mountain  air,  I  suspect  that  the  stinks  of 
petrol  and  horse-dung  get  into  the  blood.  There  may 
be  a  little  mountain  sickness  at  first,  but  the  system 
soon  adapts  itself.  On  the  first  day  of  my  arrival  in 
London,  as  the  train  moved  over  the  roofs  of  the 
squalid  tenements  in  the  environs  of  Waterloo  and 
round  about  the  great  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  its  cross 
reaching  up  into  the  sky  like  a  great  symbolic  X,  I 
kept  thinking  to  myself  that  here  was  the  greatest  city 
in  the  world,  and  that  here  again  was  I,  in  it — one  of 
its  five  millions  of  inhabitants.  I  said  so  to  myself 
aloud  and  whistled  low.  Already  I  was  in  love  with 
London's  dirt  and  grandeur,  and  by  the  time  I  had 


ENJOYING  LIFE  7 

reached  the  Strand  I  plunged  like  a  man  who  cannot 
swim.  After  all,  only  Shakespeare  could  stand  on  the 
top  of  Mont  Blanc  and  not  lose  his  spiritual  equi- 
librium. 

III. 

June,  1914. — But  it  is  not  always  possible  to  be 
living  in  the  heights.  And  life  in  the  plains  is 
often  equally  furious.  We  can  climb  to  peaks  in 
Darien  without  ever  leaving  our  armchair.  We  may 
be  swimming  the  Hellespont  as  we  light  a  cigarette. 
Some  of  the  tiniest  outward  incidents  in  life,  in 
appearance  as  harmless  as  cricket  balls,  may  be 
actually  as  explosive  as  bombs.  That  little,  scarcely 
audible  thing — a  kiss — may  shatter  the  fortress  of  the 
heart  with  the  force  of  a  15-inch  gun.  A  melody  in 
music — one  of  Bach's  fugues  or  the  "  Unfinished 
Symphony  "  of  Schubert — may,  in  a  few  bars,  create 
a  bouleversement,  sweep  us  out  into  the  high  seas  past 
all  our  usual  anchorages  and  leave  us  there  alone  to 
struggle  with  a  new  destiny.  And  who  cannot  recall 
— some  there  be,  I  think,  who,  with  delightful 
preciosity,  collect  them  in  the  memory — those  silent, 
instantaneous  flashes  of  collusion  with  beauty,  of 
which  even  the  memory  so  electrifies  the  emotions  that 
no  mental  analysis  of  them  is  ever  made.  The  intellect 
is  knocked  out  in  the  first  round.  We  can  simply 
catalogue  them  without  comment — e.g.,  a  girl  leaping 
and  running  into  the  sea  to  bathe;  those  blue  butter- 


8  ENJOYING  LIFE 

flies  and  thyme  flowers  (which  Richard  Jefferies  loved 
with  an  almost  feminine  tenderness);  the  nude  body 
of  a  child  of  four;  a  young  red-topped  larch  cone;  a 
certain  smile,  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  an  unresolved 
inflexion  of  a  voice. 

IV. 

June,  igi4. — Life  pursues  me  like  a  fury.  Every- 
where, at  all  times,  I  am  feeling,  thinking,  hoping, 
hating,  loving,  cheering.     It  is  impossible  to  escape. 

I  once  sought  refuge  in  a  deserted  country  church- 
yard, where  the  gravestones  stood  higgledy-piggledy 
among  the  long  grass,  their  inscriptions  almost 
obliterated  by  moss  and  time.  "  Here,"  said  I,  "  it  will 
be  cold  and  lifeless  and  I  can  rest."  I  wanted  to  be 
miserable,  dull,  and  unresponsive.  With  difficulty  I 
read  an  inscription  expressing  the  sorrow  of  a  father 
and  mother  in  1701  for  the  loss  of  their  beautiful 
daughter  Joan,  aged  21.  I  read  others,  but  the  most 
pathetic  barely  amused  me.  I  was  satisfactorily  in 
different.  These  people,  I  said  sardonically,  had  livea 
and  suffered  so  long  ago  that  even  their  sorrows  were 
petrified.  Parents'  grief  in  1701  is  simply  a  piece  of 
palaeontology.  So  I  passed  on,  content  to  be  unmo- 
lested, thinking  I  had  escaped.  But  beside  the  old 
graves  were  a  few  recent  ones  with  fresh  flowers  upon 
them;  across  the  road  in  the  schoolroom  the  children 
began  to  sing,  and  up  at  the  farm,  I  then  recalled,  the 


ENJOYING  LIFE  g 

old  folk,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brooks,  were  waiting  for  the 
call;  all  of  them  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  church 
tower  whose  clock-face  watched  the  generations  come 
and  go  and  come  again  to  lie  beneath  the  shadow  of 
the  yews.  I  saw  the  procession  of  human  life,  genera- 
tion after  generation,  pass  through  the  village  down 
through  the  ages,  and  though  all  had  been  silent 
before,  I  heard  now  the  roar  of  existence  sweeping 
through  the  churchyard  as  loudly  as  in  Piccadilly.  I 
jumped  from  peak  to  peak  of  thought — from  human 
life  on  the  planet  to  the  planet  itself;  the  earth  fell 
away  from  my  feet,  and  far  below  was  the  round  world 
whole — a  sphere  among  other  spheres  in  the  planetary 
system  bound  up  by  the  laws  of  evolution  and  motion. 
As  I  hung  aloft  at  so  great  a  height  and  in  an  atmo- 
sphere, so  cold  and  rare,  I  shivered  at  the  immensity  of 
the  universe  of  which  I  formed  a  part :  for  the  moment 
a  colossal  stage  fright  seized  me,  I  longed  to  cease  to 
be,  to  vanish  in  complete  self-annihilation.  But  only 
for  a  moment :  then  gathering  the  forces  of  the  soul  as 
every  man  must  and  does  at  times  of  crisis,  I  leapt 
upon  the  rear  of  the  great  occasion  before  it  was  too 
late,  crying  :  The  world  is  a  ship,  on  an  unknown  and 
dangerous  commission.  But  I  for  my  part,  as  a  silly 
shipboy,  will  stand  on  the  ratlines  and  cheer.  I  left 
the  churchyard  almost  hilarious  ! 


10  ENJOYING  LIFE 

V. 

June,  1914. — "  Dans  litterature,"  said  M.  Taine, 
*'  j'aime  tout."  I  would  shake  his  hand  for  saying 
that  and  add  :  ''  In  life,  Monsieur,  as  well."  All  things 
attract  me  equally.  I  cannot  concentrate.  I  am  ready 
to  do  anything,  go  anywhere,  think  anything,  read 
anything.  Wherever  I  hitch  my  waggon  I  am  con- 
fident of  an  adventurous  ride.  Somebody  says, 
■'  Come  and  hear  some  Wagner."  I  am  ready  to  go. 
Another,  "  I  say,  they  are  going  to  ring  the  bull " — 
and  who  wants  to  complete  his  masterpiece  or  count 
his  money  when  they  are  going  to  ring  the  bull  ?  I 
will  go  with  you  to  Norway,  Switzerland,  Jericho, 
Timbuctoo.  Talk  to  me  about  the  Rosicrucians  or  the 
stomach  of  a  flea  and  I  will  listen  to  you.  Tell  me 
that  the  Chelsea  Power  Station  is  as  beautiful  as  the 
Parthenon  at  Athens  and  I'll  believe  you.  Every- 
thing is  beautiful,  even  the  ugly — why  did  Whistler 
paint  the  squalor  of  the  London  streets,  or  Brangwyn 
the  gloom  of  a  steam-crane  ?  To  subscribe  to  any  one 
particular  profession,  mode  of  life,  doctrine,  philo- 
sophy, opinion,  or  enthusiasm,  is  to  cut  oneself  off 
from  all  the  rest — I  subscribe  to  all.  With  the  whole 
world  before  you,  beware  lest  the  machinery  of  educa- 
tion seizes  hold  of  the  equipotential  of  your  youth  and 
grinds  you  out  the  finished  product !  You  were  a 
human  being   to  start   with — noiu,   you   are   only   a 


ENJOYING  LIFE  ll 

soldier,  sailor,  tinker,  tailor.  Leonardo  da  Vinci, 
racked  with  frustrate  passion  after  the  universal,  is 
reported  to  have  declared  that  only  to  do  one  thing 
and  only  to  know  one  thing  was  a  disgrace,  no  less. 
"  We  should  not  be  able  to  say  of  a  man,  *  He  is  a 
mathematician/  or  a  '  preacher,'  or  '  eloquent ' ;  but 
that  he  is  '  a  gentleman.'  That  universal  quality  alone 
pleases  me."  (Pascal.) 

"  The  works  of  man  don't  interest  me  much,"  an 
enthusiast  in  Natural  History  once  said  to  me,  "  I 
prefer  the  works  of  God."  Unctuous  wretch  !  He  was 
one  of  those  forlorn  creatures  with  a  carefully  ordered 
mind,  his  information  and  opinions  written  out  in 
indelible  ink,  and  pigeon-holed  for  easy  reference. 
He  had  never  shrunk  to  realize  all  he  did  not  know — 
he  knew  all  the  things  worth  knowing.  He  never 
shuddered  to  reflect  upon  the  limitations  of  a  single 
point  of  view — other  folk  were  simply  wrong.  He  was 
scarcely  one  to  understand  the  magnanimous  phrase 
of  the  French,  "  Tout  comprendre  c'est  tout  par- 
donner."    Other  folk  were  either  good  or  bad. 

VI. 

]uly,  1914. — Perhaps  too  great  an  enthusiasm 
exhausts  the  spirit.  Love  kills.  I  know  it.  The  love 
of  one's  art  or  profession,  passion  for  another's  soul, 
for  one's  children,  sap  the  life  blood  and  hurry  us  on 
to  the  grave.    I  know  a  man  who  killed  himself  with  a 


12  ENJOYING  LIFE 

passion  for  dragon-flies  —  a  passion  ending  in 
debauchery  :  and  debauchery  of  books,  lust  of  know- 
ledge is  as  fatal  as  any  other  kind. 

I  know  it.  But  I  don't  care.  Your  minatory  fore- 
fiinger  is  of  no  avail.  Already  I  am  too  far  gone. 
Those  days  are  ancient  history  now  when  I  endured 
the  torture  of  an  attempt  to  reclaim  myself.  I  even 
reduced  myself  to  so  little  as  a  grain  a  day  by  reading 
Kant  and  talking  to  entomologists.  But  no  permanent 
cure  was  ever  effected. 

Once,  I  recall,  I  sat  down  to  study  zoology,  because 
I  thought  it  would  be  sober  and  dull.  How  foolish  ! 
Rousseau  said  he  cooled  his  brain  by  dissecting  a 
moss.  But  I  know  of  few  more  blood-curdling  achieve- 
ments than  the  thoroughly  successful  completion  of  a 
difficult  dissection. 

Then  I  immersed  myself  in  old  books  and  forgotten 
learning.  I  had  the  idea  that  a  big  enough  tumulus 
of  dust  and  parchments  over  my  head  would  be  a  big 
enough  stopper  for  the  joy  of  life.  I  became  an 
habitu6  of  the  British  Museum  Reading  Room  and 
rummaged  among  the  dead  books  as  Lord  Rosebery 
calls  them,  but  only  to  find  that  they  were  buried  alive. 
Any  unfortunate  devil  received  the  cataract  of  super- 
latives I  poured  upon  him  at  the  discovery  of  some 
lively  memoirs  of  1601.  One  of  my  favourite  books 
became  the  "Encyclopaedia  Britannica."  I  read  its 
learned  articles  till  my  eyes  ached  and  my  head  swam. 


ENJOYING  LIFE  13 

The  sight  of  those  huge  tomes  made  me  tremble  with 
a  lover's  impatience.  I  could  have  wept  in  thinking! 
of  all  the  facts  I  should  never  know  and  of  all  those  I 
had  forgotten  !  I  grew  to  love  facts  and  learning  with 
the  same  passion  as  I  had  loved  life.  My  enthusiasm 
was  not  quenched.  It  was  only  diverted.  I  tried  to 
laugh  myself  out  of  it.  But  it  was  no  use  being 
cynical.  For  I  found  that  no  fact,  no  piece  of  infor- 
mation about  this  world,  is  greater  or  less  than 
another,  but  that  all  are  equal  as  the  angels.  So  with 
the  utmost  seriousness  I  looked  up  any  word  I 
thought  upon — pins,  nutmegs,  Wallaby — it's  a  terrible 
game ! — and  gorged !  I  winced  at  nothing.  I 
rejected  nothing.  I  raked  over  even  the  filth,  deter- 
mined that  no  nastiness  should  escape  my  mind  :  I 
studied  syphilis  and  politics,  parasitology  and  crime, 
and,  like  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  soon  discovered  that  I 
could  digest  a  salad  gathered  in  a  churchyard  as 
easily  as  one  in  a  garden. 

VII. 

July,  igi4.. — I  have  long  since  given  up  this  idea  of 
hiding  away  from  life  in  a  museum  or  a  library.  Life 
seeks  you  out  wherever  you  are.  For  the  diarist,  the 
most  commonplace  things  of  daily  life  are  of  absorb- 
ing interest.  Each  day,  the  diarist  finds  himself  born 
into  a  world  as  strange  and  beautiful  as  the  dead 
world  of  the  day  before.     The  diarist  lives  on  the 


14  ENJOYING  LIFE 

globe  for  all  the  world  as  if  he  lodged  on  the  slopes  of 
a  mountain,  and  unlike  most  mountain  dwellers,  he 
never  loses  Ins  sense  of  awe  at  his  situation.  Life  is 
vivid  to  hirii.  "  And  so  to  bed,"  writes  Mr.  Secretary 
Pepys,  a  hundred  times  in  his  diary,  and  we  may  be 
sure  that  each  time  he  joined  Mrs.  Pepys  beneath  the 
coverlet  he  felt  that  the  moment  which  marked  the 
end  of  his  wonderful  day  was  one  deserving  careful 
record. 

A  man,  shut  up  in  a  dark  room,  can  still  be  living  a 
tense  and  eager  life.  Cut  off  from  sight  and  sound, 
he  still  can  sit  in  his  chair  and  listen  to  the  beating  of 
his  own  heart — that  wonderful  muscle  inside  the  cage 
of  the  thorax,  working  and  moving  like  some  indepen- 
dent entity,  some  other  -per son,  upon  whom  the  favour 
of  our  daily  life  depends.  The  human  body,  what  a 
wonderful  mechanism  it  is!  It  never  ceases  to 
astonish  me  that  anyone — on  waking  up  in  this  world 
and  finding  himself  in  possession  of  a  body — his  only 
bit  of  real  property — should  be  satisfied  when  he  has 
clothed  and  fed  it.  One  would  think  that  the  infant's 
first  articulated  request  would  be  for  a  primer  of 
physiology. 

I  have  often  wondered  how  a  beautiful  woman 
regards  her  body.  The  lovelmess  which  I  must  seek 
outside  myself  sleeps  on  "the  ivories  of  her  pure 
members."  She  carries  the  incommunicable  secret  in 
herself,  in  the  texture  of  her  own  skin,  and  the  contour 


ENJOYING    LIFE  15 

of  her  own  breasts.  She  is  a  guardian  of  the  hidden 
treasure  which  fills  the  flowers  and  lives  in  the  sunset. 
How  must  it  be  to  possess  so  burning  a  secret  hidden 
even  to  the  possessor  ?  What  must  she  think  on  look- 
ing into  the  glass  ? 

I  look  into  the  glass,  and  am  baffled  by  the  intoler- 
able strangeness  that  that  face  is  mine,  that  I  am  I, 
that  my  name  is  Barbellion.  It  is  easy,  too  fatally 
easy,  to  continue  exploring  the  recesses  of  one's  own 
life  and  mind  day  by  day,  making  fresh  discoveries, 
opening  up  new  tracts,  and  on  occasion  getting  a 
sight  of  blue  mountain  ranges  in  the  distance  whither 
we  endeavour  to  arrive. 

VIII. 
July,  igi4. — Life  is  beautiful  and  strange.  Too 
beautiful,  too  strange.  I  sometimes  envy  those  folk 
whom  I  see  daily  accepting  life  without  question  or 
wonderment  as  a  homely  fireside  affair — except  of 
course  for  some  unusual  places  like  the  Niagara  Falls 
only  to  be  visited  on  a  holiday,  or  for  some  unpleasant 
tragedies  they  read  about  in  the  newspapers.  It 
would  be  useless  to  put  to  them  the  ultimate  and 
staggering  question  why  anything  exists  at  all — 
"  Why  not  sheer  negation  ?" — to  the  folk  who  find 
their  circumstances  so  dull  that  they  have  to  play  with 
bat  and  ball  to  fend  off  ennui,  who  are  always  m 
search  of  what  is  known  as  a  "  pastime,"  or  who  invite 


i6  ENJOYING  LIFE 

children  to  stay  with  them  "  to  keep  them  aHve  "  as 
they  explain — as  if  there  were  not  enough  weeping, 
wondering,  and  laughing  to  be  done  in  this  blessed 
world  to  keep  us  all  alive  and  throbbing  !  Life  has 
ceased  to  be  an  intoxication  for  them.  It  is  just  a 
mild  illusion  in  which  they  attend  to  the  slugs  in  the 
strawberry  beds  and  get  in  that  extra  hundredweight 
of  coal,  accepting  the  bountiful  flow  of  still,  calm, 
happy  days  as  their  due,  and  like  spoilt  children 
feeling  bored  with  them.  Yet  confront  these  dormice 
with  a  slice  of  life  and  they  will  blink  and  scamper 
off.  Show  them  a  woman  suckling  a  baby  or  a  dirty 
man  drinking  beer,  and  they  will  raise  their  eyebrows 
or  blanch.  There  is  no  limit  to  their  fear  of  living. 
They  are  nervous  of  their  appetites  and  instincts — 
they  will  not  eat  themselves  into  a  bilious  attack  nor 
smoke  themselves  into  a  weak  heart.  They  fear  either 
to  love  or  to  hate  unreservedly.  Men  like  Baudelaire 
and  Villon  terrify  them,  liner  disasters  and  earth- 
quakes send  them  trembling  to  their  knees  and  books 
of  devotion.  They  will  not  brazen  life  out.  Let  them 
come  out  of  their  houses  and  seek  courage  in  the 
thunder  of  the  surf  on  the  seashore,  or  amid  the  tall 
majestic  columns  of  the  strong  Scots  pines,  whose 
lower  branches  spread  down  and  outwards  graciously 
like  friendly  hands  to  frightened  children.  How  many 
times  have  I  sought  sanctuary  among  the  tall  Scots 
pines ! 


ENJOYING  LIFE  1/ 

IX. 

Jidy,  1914. — Courage,  I  know,  is  necessary.  Let  us 
pray  for  courage,  if  we  are  to  regard  without  flinching 
our  amazing  situation  on  this  island  planet  where  we 
are  marooned.  Amid  the  island's  noise  and  rapture, 
struggle,  and  vicissitude,  we  must  wrestle  with  the 
forces  of  Nature  for  our  happiness.  True  happiness  is 
the  spoils  of  conquest  seized  out  of  the  clutches  of 
furious  life.  We  must  pay  for  it  with  a  price.  That 
which  is  given  away  contains  no  value.  Tall  cliffs,  a 
dancing  sea  and  the  sun  glorious  perhaps.  Yes,  but 
simple  enjoyment  of  that  kind  is  a  Pyrrhic  victory. 
The  real  victor  must  exult  in  the  menace  of  two 
hundred  feet  of  sheer,  perpendicular  rock  surface;  and 
when  he  bathes,  remember  that  the  sea  has  talons  and 
that  the  glorious  sun  itself,  what  is  it  ? — a  globe  of 
incandescent  heat,  compared  with  which  the  blast 
furnaces  of  Sheffield  are  only  warm,  and  around 
which  our  earth  ever  keeps  on  its  dizzy  mothlike 
circle. 

I  am  far  from  believing  that  the  world  is  a  paradise 
of  sea-bathing  and  horse-exercise  as  R.L.S.  said.  That 
is  a  piece  of  typical  Stevensonian  bravura.  It  is  a 
rare  gymnasium  to  be  sure.  But  it  is  also  a  blood- 
spattered  abattoir,  a  theatre  of  pain,  an  anabasis  of 
travail,  a  Calvary  and  a  Crucifixion.  But  therein  lies 
its  extraordinary  fascination — in  those  strange  anti- 

2 


i8  ENJOYING  LIFE 

theses  of  comedy  and  tragedy,  joy  and  sorrow,  beauty 
and  ugliness.  It  is  the  sock  one  day  and  the  buskin 
the  next.  Marriage  sheet  and  shroud  arc  inextricably 
interwoven.  Like  a  beautiful  and  terrible  mistress, 
the  world  holds  me  its  devoted  slave.  She  flouts  me, 
but  I  love  her  still.  She  is  cruel,  but  still  I  love  her. 
My  love  for  her  is  a  guilty  love — for  the  voluptuous 
curves  of  the  Devonshire  moors,  for  the  bland 
benignity  of  the  sun  smiling  alike  on  the  just  and  on 
the  unjust,  for  the  sea  which  washes  in  a  beautiful 
shell  or  a  corpse  with  the  same  meditative  indif- 
ference. 

There  are  many  things  I  ought  to  scowl  upon.  But 
I  cannot.  The  spell  is  too  great.  I  surprise  myself 
sometimes  with  my  callous  cxuberation  at  tlie  triumph 
of  brute  force,  at  some  of  the  grotesque  melodramas 
engineered  by  Fate  (for  in  spite  of  Thomas  Hardy 
and  Greek  tragedy.  Fate  is  often  but  a  sorry  artist), 
at  the  splendid  hypocrisy  of  many  persons  even  in 
high  places  or  when  I  learn  that  a  whole  army  has 
been  "  cut  to  pieces,"  I  rub  my  hands  murmuring  in 
ironical  delight,  "  It  is  simply  colossal."  Marlowe,  I 
believe,  drew  Barrabas  out  of  sheer  love  of  his  wicked- 
ness. Shakespeare  surely  exulted  in  the  unspeakable 
tragedy  of  King  Lear. 

I  have  been  too  long  now  in  love  with  this  wicked 
old  earth  to  wish  to  change  one  jot  or  one  tittle  of  it. 
\  am  loath  to  surrender  even  the  Putumayo  atrocities. 


ENJOYING  LIFE  19 

Let  me  have  Crippen  as  well  as  Father  Damien, 
Heliogabalus  as  well  as  Marcus  Aurelius.  Liars  and 
vagabonds  are  the  salt  of  the  earth.  Who  wants 
Benvenuto  Cellini  to  tell  the  truth  ?  What  missionary 
spirit  feels  tempted  to  reclaim  Aretino  or  Laurence 
Sterne  ?  The  man  who  wrote  of  "  the  pitiful  end  "  of 
Marlowe  killed  in  a  tavern  brawl  bores  me,  with  his 
peevishness.  It  is  silly  to  repine  because  Keats  died 
young  or  because  Poe  drank  himself  to  death.  This 
kind  of  jejune  lament  from  the  people  who  live  in 
garden  cities  soon  becomes  very  monotonous  indeed. 
Tragedy  and  comedy,  I  thought  we  were  all  agreed, 
are  the  warp  and  woof  of  life,  and  if  we  have  agreed 
to  accept  life  and  accept  it  fully,  let  us  stand  by  our 
compact  and  whoop  like  cowboys  on  the  plains.  Who 
wants  to  be  pampered  with  divine  or  miraculous  inter- 
vention ?  We  are  too  proud.  Let  the  world  run  on. 
We  can  manage.  If  you  suffer  at  least  you  live,  said 
Balzac.  So  Heine  and  Schubert  out  of  their  great 
sorrows  wrote  their  little  songs,  and  out  of  Amiel's  life 
of  wasted  opportunity  came  the  Journal  to  give  the  lie 
to  those  who  do  not  hold  it  to  be  as  much  a  triumph 
to  fail  as  to  succeed,  to  despair  as  to  win  through 
with  joy. 


CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON* 

I. 

igi3  (Summer). — For  the  past  few  days  I  have  been 
suffering  from  a  horrible  feeling  of  compression.  1 
have  been  struggling  in  vain  to  embrace  a  larger 
sphere  of  intellectual  activity — to  expand  in  spite  of 
the  stubborn  elasticity  of  my  mental  bag  which  more 
than  once  has  approached  bursting  point. 

The  affair  began  with  some  illustrated  booklets  on 
trips  to  Norway,  wherein  I  saw  pictures  of  beautiful 
places  the  very  existence  of  which  had  never  before 
entered  my  consciousness. 

"  How  ghastly,"  I  said  to  myself  almost  in  anguish, 
"  that  here  I  am  forced  to  go  on  day  by  day  frittering 
away  my  life  as  a  museum  assistant  in  London — in 
England — when  all  the  planet  beyond  remains  unex- 
plored by  me."  Surely  it  is  a  perfectly  natural  desire 
in  a  human  being  on  first  fully  awakening  to  full 
consciousness  of  his  amazing  situation  to  set  out  forth- 
with to  explore  the  globe?  For  my  part  I  became 
eager — too  eager  for  my  peace  of  mind — to  explore 
every  nook  and  cranny  on  the  face  of  the  globe,  so  that 
before  death  came  I  could  say  that  I  had  had  the 
*  Reprinted  from  The  Forum. 
21 


22  CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON 

intclligciil  interest  and  curiosity  at  least  to  inspect  it 
superficially. 

But  I  did  not  wish  to  end  there.  After  traversing 
the  earth  and  seeing  all  manner  of  mountains,  rivers, 
plains,  deserts,  and  faunas,  all  manner  of  peoples  and 
of  human  lives,  and  experiencing  all  manner  of 
climates,  I  was  big  with  desire  to  settle  down  quietly 
and  study — to  fill  out  my  superficial  survey  with  all 
the  available  human  knowledge,  to  make  myself 
acquainted  with  everything  that  men  had  ever  found 
out  about  the  earth. 

Zoology,  my  favorite  science,  of  course  offered  itself 
at  once  as  a  point  at  which  to  begin.  I  longed  for 
more  zoology.  Yet  my  zest  recoiled  upon  itself  when 
I  recognized  how  hopelessly  incapable  my  brain  was 
of  sustaining  the  avalanche  of  new  facts  and  ideas  I 
wished  to  cast  upon  it.  I  turned  over  the  pages  of  the 
Zoologische  Anzeiger  and  read  a  few  papers  greedily. 
Then  realizing  that  there  were  fifty  or  sixty  more 
papers  in  it  of  equal  interest  and  fifty  or  sixty  more 
volumes  of  the  Anzeiger,  all  containing  for  me,  a 
zoologist,  researches  and  studies  of  deep  fascination, 
I  turned  over  a  few  more  pages  listlessly,  read  a  few 
more  titles,  and  closed  the  book.  ...  It  was  no  use. 
I  must  curb  my  appetite. 

I  sat  back  in  my  chair  and  mused.  .  .  .  Zoology 
alone  was  sufficient  to  baulk  my  puny  endeavours. 
How  hopeless  it  all  seemed  !  Man  is  given  the  hunger 
for  knowledge,  but  not  the  capacity  in  nerve  cells  to 


CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON  23 

gratify  it.  He  is  "  avid  of  all  dominion  and  all- 
mightiness,"  but  is  forced  to  spend  his  days  as  a 
museum  assistant.  I  am  not  capable  of  doing  much 
else.  Yet  I  want  not  only  unlimited  zoology,  but 
astronomy,  physics,  chemistry,  and  all  the  sciences. 
I  want  to  explore  all  knowledge.  I  have  developed 
again  all  the  accursed  thirst  for  knowledge  which  in 
my  early  days  undermined  my  health  and  spoilt  my 
eyesight.  Surely  it  is  a  perfectly  natural  desire  in  a 
human  being  on  waking  up  in  a  wonderful  world  to 
proceed  at  once  to  find  out  all  that  is  known  about  it 
to  date! 

My  sails  fluttered  loosely  in  the  winds  of  desire  for 
a  moment,  then  I  was  caught  up  and  blown  on  into 
fresh  excesses. 

This  time  it  was  the  picture  of  a  beautiful  woman  I 
noticed  in  the  morning  paper.  The  beautiful  neck, 
the  perfectly  bowed  lips,  and  the  grieving  eyes  simply 
intoxicated  me.  I  went  on  glancing  at  the  news,  every 
now  and  then  returning  to  rest  my  eyes  on  Lady 
Winifred  Gore,  experiencing  every  time  that  I  did  it 
a  very  rueful  petulance.  What  manner  of  man  could 
he  possibly  be,  I  said,  who  would  dare,  perhaps  non- 
chalantly, to  seek  in  marriage  the  hand  of  such  a 
divinity  ?  I  became  envious  of  the  fortunate  gentle- 
man, whoever  he  should  be.  I  did  not  like  to  face  the 
obvious  fact  that  such  a  prize  could  never  be  mine.  I 
knew  that  even  if  it  could,  such  a  prize  falls  to  the  lot 
of  a  man  but  once.    Yet  there  are  a  thousand  beautiful 


24  CRYING    FOR    THE    MOON 

women  with  beautiful  souls  whom  I  could  never  know 
and  never  love. 

The  glamour  of  her  noble  birth,  I  think,  fired  my 
imagination  and  made  me  think  of  social  vortices  out- 
side my  knowledge.  I  should  like  to  be  an  aristocrat 
or  a  coal-miner  for  a  while.  Plow  difficult  it  seems  to 
remain  content  with  my  own  small  portion,  my 
own  little  circumscribed  life  and  the  dire  necessity  of 
having  to  remain  myself,  of  having  to  see  life  always 
with  my  own  spectacles  all  through  life's  tour.  I 
desire  to  have  the  experiences  of  a  hundred  different 
lives  in  different  classes,  circles,  professions,  trades, 
occupations,  to  test  and  try  every  kind  of  life,  to  sum 
the  series  of  human  experiences. 

II. 

Coming  home  in  the  omnibus,  I  caught  the  London 
fever.  So  many  people  stimulated  ray  lust  for  life.  1 
obtained  a  splendid  exhilaration  from  watching  the 
London  streets.  The  bustle  and  furore  invigorated 
mc.  I  longed  to  dash  down  in  the  middle  of  it  and  go 
the  pace.  Here  was  a  man  in  a  silk  hat  and  evening 
dress  stepping  into  his  car  from  his  club,  here  a  man 
selling  mechanical  toys,  here  some  laughing  girls 
dashing  across  the  road  and  enjoying  themselves, 
here  a  woman  with  paralysis  begging,  and  here  a 
newsvendor  telling  me  of  a  "  Dramatic  Story — Lost 
Pearl  Necklace,"  while  always  everywhere  I  saw  people 
walking,  riding,  driving  in  cabs  and  'buses,  hurrying. 


CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON  25 

talking,  frowning,  smiling  as  if  the  whole  world  were 
tacitly  engaged  upon  the  same  mysterious  undertak- 
ing. I  felt  like  climbing  down  and  beseeching  some 
one  to  tell  me  what  it  was. 

In  the  evening  I  went  to  the  Palace  to  see  Anna 
Pavlova  dance.  I  was  amazed  not  so  much  at  the 
dancing  but  at  the  fact  that  here  was  a  woman — 
strange,  delicate,  lissome,  spirituelle — leading  a  life 
quite  unsuspected  and  unimagined  by  me — a  life  con- 
sisting of  the  daily  pleasure  of  beautiful  eurhythmic 
motions,  and  the  satisfaction  of  delighting  crowd  after 
crowd  who  came  night  after  night  and  clapped  and 
sent  her  bouquets. 

Oh  !  how  I  sympathize  with  the  child  who  keeps 
saying  to  its  mother :  "  I  want  to  be  a  soldier,"  "  I 
wish  I  were  an  engine-driver,"  "I  want  to  be  an 
actor."  It  is  only  when  we  grow  up  that  we  are 
fools  enough  to  go  on  our  way  satisfied  with  our 
own  little  perspectives.  I  wanted  to  be  Anna  for 
a  night  or  two.  I  wanted  to  luxuriate  in  the  still- 
ness which  comes  upon  an  audience  when  the  orator 
waits  a  few  moments  before  continuing  his  words. 
I  envied  Pasteur  the  moment  when  he  rushed  out  of 
his  laboratory  crying,  "  Tout  est  trouve."  I  mused 
upon  the  feelings  of  a  literary  genius  at  the  great 
moment  when  he  writes  "  Finis  "  at  the  end  of  a  book 
which,  with  the  self-knowledge  of  genius,  he  knows  to 
be  a  masterpiece. 

I  am  passing  through  the  world  swiftly  and  have 


26  CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON 

onl\-  time  to  live  my  own  life.  I  am  cut  off  by  my  own 
limitations  and  environment  from  knowing  much  or 
understanding  much.  I  know  nothing  of  literature 
and  the  drama  ;  I  have  but  little  ear  for  music.  I  do 
not  understand  art.  All  these  things  are  closed  to  me. 
I  am  passing  swiftly  along  the  course  of  my  life  with 
many  others  whom  I  shall  never  meet.  How  many 
dear  friends  and  kindred  spirits  remain  undiscovered 
among  that  number  ?  There  is  no  time  for  anything. 
Everything  and  everyone  is  swept  along  in  the 
hustling  current.  Oh  !  to  sun  ourselves  awhile  in  the 
water  meadows  before  dropping  over  the  falls  !  The 
real  tragedies  in  this  world  are  not  the  things  which 
happen  to  us,  but  the  things  which  don't  happen. 

Life  and  the  world  to  me  were  a  royal  banquet  at 
which  I  could  have  only  a  snack.  I  must  needs  see 
this  beautiful  earth  for  a  few  short  years  from  one 
centre  of  intelligence  and  one  viewpoint — my  own. 
What  man  can  ever  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  woman-  - 
particularly  a  beautiful  woman  ?  We  are  born  male 
and  female,  and  as  we  are  born  so  we  die.  And  what 
of  those  extraordinary  beings  we  read  of  in  the  news- 
papers whose  existence  till  we  happen  to  meet  one 
of  them  seems  to  be  incredible  fiction  ?  In  how  great 
a  measure  must  our  conception  of  life  fail  in  reality  in 
proportion  as  we  omit  these  ? 

The  imagination  helps  a  man  a  little  to  get  outside 
the  limits  of  his  own  existence.  But  the  imagination 
gives    only    a    ghost-like   reflection    of    actualities — 


CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON  2; 

sufficient  however  to  inform  us  clearly  of  the  poverty 
of  the  experiences  which  we  sense — as  few  and  poor 
as  our  finite,  isolated  natures  let  through  the  veil  of 
the  flesh.  Books  help  a  little,  but  experience  through 
books  is  second  hand.  Conversation  with  all  manner 
of  people  helps  a  little.  But  it  brings  us  only  know- 
ledge by  report. 

III. 

Even  sOj  there  are  things  which  are  forever  lost  to 
human  experience — things  of  which  we  can  never  read 
in  books  nor  hear  by  the  report  of  a  friend,  and  which 
we  scarcely  dare  to  imagine — lost  continents  (Lemuria 
and  Atlantis),  lost  masterpieces  (the  books  burnt  at 
Alexandria),  and  lost  personalities.  How  can  a  man 
recover  to  the  satisfaction  of  a  tingling  curiosity  his 
own  babyhood  and  childhood,  or  the  comedies  and 
tragedies,  the  personalities  of  and  the  accidents  to  his 
own  immediate  forbears  ?  Some  men  cannot  recollect 
their  own  father  and  mother.  Few  men  I  trow  show 
much  desire  to  discuss  their  grandmothers. 

When  a  man  grows  older,  particularly,  he  is  so 
absorbed  in  the  present  that  he  becomes  disloyal  to 
the  past  and  literally  forgets  himself.  He  no  longer 
remembers  what  it  is  to  be  a  child  or  a  youth ;  he  has 
forgotten  most  of  the  facts  and  incidents  in  his  life 
which  moulded  him  and  made  him  what  he  is.  All 
these  things  are  lost — utterly  lost,  as  few  other  things 
can  be.    And  when  he  dies,  even  if  he  be  a  great  man 


28  CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON 

and  biographers  jostle  each  other  in  the  race  to  turn 
out  volumes  on  his  life,  not  a  library  of  books  can 
possibly  recreate  a  personality  or  materialize  a  spirit. 
Life  flows  away  like  a  river  into  the  sands  of  time. 
You  cannot  catch  it  in  a  sieve,  nor  bottle  sunshine. 
As  Herakleitus  first  said,  "  We  can  never  bathe  in  the 
same  river  twice." 

IV. 

How  I  loathe  those  happy  folk — there  are  millions 
of  them,  all  detestable — who  with  a  terrible  self-com- 
placency go  on  revolving  around  the  centres  of  their 
own  souls,  perfectly  satisfied  with  that  situation  in 
life  to  which — to  use  their  own  smug  phrase — it  has 
pleased  God  to  call  them;  people  who  have  no  envy 
and  no  malice,  who  have  never  coveted  their  neigh- 
bour's ox  nor  his  wife,  and  who  believe  out  of 
ignorance  and  lack  of  imagination  rather  than  out  of 
conceit  that  their  own  life  contains  everything  to  be 
desired.  They  are  fat,  greasy,  and  smug.  But  their 
smugness  is  not  the  philosophical  smugness  of  Marcus 
Aurelius.  They  have  no  philosophy.  They  are  too 
happy  and  pleased  with  themselves  to  need  one. 
Marcus  Aurelius  developed  his  philosophy  of  resigna- 
tion because  he  feared  to  desire  fearlessly  the  things 
lie  knew  he  would  desire  in  vain.  He  put  forth  his 
tentacles  and  drew  them  in  again.  He  shrank  from 
life,  not  because  he  did  not  love  it,  but  because  he 
loved  it  too  well;  not  because  he  had  no  desires,  but 


CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON  29 

because  he  had  too  many.  It  was  his  reaction^  as  a 
biologist  would  say.  The  other  people  have  no  reac- 
tion because  life  gives  them  no  stimulus.  Theirs  is 
not  resignation  after  a  struggle;  it  is  contentment 
without  one.  Only  very  occasionally  do  the  self-com- 
placent harbour  a  suspicion  that  possibly  all  is  not 
well,  just  for  a  few  fleeting  seconds  while  some  un- 
pleasant person  like  myself  pulls  them  by  the  nose, 
making  the  ugly  suggestion  that  perhaps  they  could 
not  really  write  a  novel  as  well  as  the  other  man  they 
criticize,  that  perhaps  life  would  be  the  tiniest  bit 
fuller  if  they  understood  art  or  loved  music,  that 
doing  the  thing  that  is  nearest  is  easy  and  always  dull, 
that  their  cherished  views  on  Church  and  State  after 
all  may  be  a  little  questionable,  that  things  may  not 
be  what  they  seem,  that  life  to  some  is  difficult,  that 
men  do  starve  and  commit  murder  and  rape,  that  God 
may  not  always  be  in  His  Heaven  nor  everything 
right  with  the  world. 

V. 

Another  type  of  being  I  have  in  mind  falls  neither 
within  that  of  the  self-complacent  nor  the  philo- 
sophically resigned.  I  mean  the  type  of  those 
neurotic  intellectuals  who  welcomed  in  Baudelaire  a 
new  frisson.  How  could  they  be  capable  of  such 
ennui — as  if  they  had  sounded  the  very  depths  and 
soared  to  the  very  heights  and  compassed  every- 
thing !      They    assumed    that    because    their    fierce 


30  CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON 

thirst  had  dried  up  their  own  wells,  life  held  no 
more  water — I  could  understand  a  complaint  that 
they  were  in  such  case  forbidden  to  drink  any 
more.  They  were  like  men  dying  of  inanition  in 
a  land  of  plenty  or  of  thirst  in  a  well-watered 
country.  Lucky  for  them  that  although  like 
petulant  children  who  had  finished  their  meal  they 
indeed  cried  for  more  cake,  yet  they  were  ignorant  of 
the  cupboard  stores  and  fondly  imagined  there  was 
no  more  cake  in  the  whole  wide  world  ! 

VI. 

As  for  myself,  I  am  neither  bored,  self-complacent 
nor  resigned.  I  am  a  plunger.  I  cannot  timidly  sigh, 
"  Thy  will  be  done."  Better  surely  to  die  spluttering 
beneath  a  pile  of  vain  hopes  than  with  the  sickly 
imperturbable  smile  of  the  comfortable  person.  It  is 
better  to  have  hoped  in  vain  than  never  to  have  hoped 
at  all. 

This  afternoon  I  have  had  tea  in  an  old-fashioned 
garden  of  an  old-fashioned  Hertfordshire  inn.  While 
I  was  drinking  tea  the  innkeeper  came  out  from  a  fowl 
run  and  turning  round  toward  me  slammed  the  gate, 

calling,  "  Are  you  getting  on  air ?"    Silence.    He 

had  caught  in  the  wicket-gate  the  neck  of  a  fowl 
which  had  followed  him.  It  was  dead  at  once,  and  he 
handed  it  over  to  the  boy  to  pluck.  No  mistake,  this 
is  a  "  jolly  vivid "  world,  with  battle,  murder  and 
sudden  death,  assassinations  and  prosaic  starvation ; 


CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON  31 

and  a  fowl  m  Hertfordshire  killed  in  a  moment 
between  a  gate  and  plucked  ready  for  cooking  ! 

Shortly  after  leaving  the  inn,  I  walked  up  the  hill 
and  came  to  a  held  full  of  acres  of  poppies.  The  sun 
was  going  down  and  the  gipsies  slept.  Of  a  truth  a 
"jolly  vivid  world!"  To  plunge  into  that  scarlet 
crowd,  to  bathe  in  the  colour,  to  crush  the  crisp  green 
stalks  between  the  teeth — to  drown  ! 

How  well  I  recollect  years  ago  as  a  little  boy  waking 
up  one  morning  to  find,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
the  snow  covering  the  ground.  I  was  ravished  !  I 
went  out  into  the  field  at  the  back  of  the  house  and 
for  a  moment  regarded  the  snow,  immobile,  with  a 
pinched,  serious  little  face.  Then  I  gave  way, 
stretched  myself  out  flat  on  it  and  rolled  over  and 
over  and  over  gurgling  with  joy.  The  next  day  I  was 
home  from  school  with  a  touch  of  bronchitis,  and  my 
face  was  perhaps  a  little  paler  and  more  wondering. 
But  I  have  burnt  my  fingers  often  since — in  a  field  of 
poppies,  in  a  library  or  among  girls — plunging 
always.  Of  a  truth  a  "  jolly  vivid  "  world  !  and  full 
of  luscious,  ruddy  things. 

I  am  acutely  sensitive  to  the  fact  that  others  are 
tasting  more  of  them  than  I. 

VII. 
I  have  just  been  wandering  about  looking  gloomily 
out  of  the  windows  of  my  prison  of  flesh  and  wishing 
to  be  whisked  away  like  a  spirit  into  all  kinds  of 


32  CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON 

places,  lives,  knowledge,  and  love.  Being  a  separate 
and  isolated  creature  makes  me  sick  at  heart.  I  am 
not  content  with  living  my  own  life.  I  could  use  up 
fifty  lives  at  least. 

I  should  like  to  accompany  others  in  living  their 
lives — particularly  the  lives  of  those  whom  I  love.  I 
could  feel  all  the  pain  at  parting  from  friends  in  a 
new  way.  This  centrifugal  force  of  the  spirit  must  lie 
at  the  bottom  of  the  little  pain  felt  in  saying  "  good- 
bye" even  to  acquaintances.  Something  snaps  when 
we  bid  "  adieu  "  to  a  man  we  know — or  even  when  we 
leave  a  tramcar  or  a  railway-carriage  after  making  ten 
minutes'  silent  acquaintanceship  with  five  or  six  dull, 
uninteresting  yet  human  beings.  Partir,  c'est  toujours 
mourir  un  feu. 

I  can  see  the  gentleman  with  red  cheeks  and  large 
biceps  flinging  at  this  the  epithet  "  sentimental,"  as  if 
he  were  flinging  a  stone.  But  he  does  not  under- 
stand. How  should  he  ?  Large  biceps  and  red 
cheeks  are  not  without  their  disadvantages.  I  do 
affirm  that  the  most  commonplace  farewells  for  me 
focus  the  attention  all  at  once  upon  the  mystery  and 
magic  of  our  existence  and  separated  lives.  It  comes 
as  an  abrupt  reminder  of  our  ignorance  of  the  future 
and  our  dependence  upon  outside  forces.  We  feel  a 
helplessness  as  creatures  swept  across  a  limitless  ocean 
by  currents,  each  alone  in  his  own  little  boat,  even 
though  the  boats  keep  together  for  a  while  and  we 
shout  to  each  other  across  the  water.    After  a  day  of 


CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON  33 

homely  pleasures,  when  we  have  been  immersed  in  the 
little  soothing  commonplaces  of  daily  life,  we  are  at 
once  made  to  confront  the  great  mystery  which  lies 
everywhere  around  us  and  which — look  where  we  will 
— is  ever  ready  to  catch  the  eye  and  compel  the 
attention — as  soon  as  it  is  time  to  get  up  and  say 
'  good-bye."  We  may  try  to  avoid  it  as  much  as  we 
can — we  may  smoke  a  cigarette  and  drink  a  glass 
of  wine,  play  cards,  and  tell  a  funny  story ;  but  we  all 
know,  though  we  never  mention  it,  that  each  of  us  has 
a  skeleton  in  his  closet— the  skeleton  of  Death  and  the 
Unknown. 

VIII. 

A  dark  night  with  stars  but  no  moon,  tall  trees — 
dusky  gaunt  forms  —  on  each  side  of  a  hill  road. 
Everything  is  silent.  I  feel  solitary  and  pleasurably 
sad.  Suddenly  a  train  dashes  along  the  valley  below. 
I  look  over  the  hedge  and  gaze  at  the  lighted  windows 
of  the  train  as  it  sails  around  a  bend  in  the  valley  like 
a  phosphorescent  caterpillar.  .  .  .  Who  are  those 
that  are  travelling  in  it  and  whither  are  they  going  ? 
I  do  not  know.  God  knows,  I  suppose,  but  I  must 
continue  my  solitary  way,  catching  sight  now  and 
then  of  a  cottage  window  light  in  between  the  trees. 
Such  window  lights  summon  an  idle  tear  from  I  know 
not  where. 

Everywhere  one  can  see  human  love  trying  to  over- 

3 


34  CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON 

come  time,  distance,  and  separation,  trying  to  draw 
together  the  threads  of  isolated  lives.  If  I  enter  a 
friend's  house,  I  see  on  the  mantelpiece  photographs 
of  folk  I  met  last  week  hundreds  of  miles  away— they 
are  cousins  or  relations  or  friends.  I  say  to  myself 
with  an  infinite  relish  for  the  mysteries  of  time  and 
space,  "  Dear  me,  last  week,  this  time,  I  was  hundreds 
of  miles  away " — in  Timbuctoo  or  the  Andaman 
Islands,  w^herever  they  are. 

After  a  day  spent  in  London — in  "all  the  uproar 
and  the  press,"  in  'bus  riding  and  train  catching,  with 
a  literary  friend  at  lunch  and  tea  in  an  A.B.C.  shop 
with  all  its  variegated  life — I  arrive  toward  evening 
at  a  village  thirty  miles  in  the  country  and  enter  a 
baker's  shop  for  a  loaf  of  bread  for  my  supper.  There 
is  the  baker,  fat,  bald,  and  sleepy — waiting  for  me. 
He  has  been  waiting  there  all  day — for  weeks  past — 
perhaps  all  his  life !  He  hands  me  the  loaf,  our 
courses  touch  and  then  we  sweep  away  again  out  into 
the  infinite.  What  would  he  say  if  I  told  him  his  life 
was  a  beautiful  parabolic  curve  ? 

Last  year  about  this  time,  armed  with  a  letter  of 
introduction,  I  called  upon  a  professor  of  zoology  who 
happened  to  be  out.  I  was  inadvertently  shown  by 
the  servant  girl  into  a  drawing-room  where  a  little 
boy  lay  on  a  rug  sound  asleep,  with  his  head  framed 
in  one  arm  and  his  curls  hanging  loosely  down  over 
his  face.  I  looked  down  upon  his  little  form 
and     upon     his     face    and     marvelled.       He     never 


CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON  35 

stirred  and  I  stepped  softly  from  the  room  and  never 
saw  him  again.  Life  is  full  of  such  magic.  Every 
such  experience  means  a  little  bitter-sweet  sorrow. 
For  it  means  pain  to  be  a  separate  lonely  unit,  a 
disrupted  chip  of  the  universe.  The  gregarious  nature 
of  man  is  not  simply  a  fact  of  natural  history.  It  is 
the  expression  of  a  deep  religious  desire  for  oneness 
in  which  alone  we  can  sink  down  to  rest. 

I  nowhere  obtained  a  more  vivid  impression  of  my 
own  isolation  than  when  walking  the  other  evening  in 
the  country  where  I  was  staying,  I  turned  toward 
home  and  caught  sight  of  the  little  cottage  up  the 
road  v/here  I  lodged.  I  noted  the  room  with  the 
open  lattice  window  where  I  had  been  sleeping  and 
Vvhere  I  was  to  sleep,  and  I  considered  how  that  at 
night  when  everything  was  in  darkness  and  no  one 
stirred  all  that  there  was  of  me  would  be  found  un- 
conscious in  a  bed,  beneath  that  little  roof,  within 
that  small  cottage  which  stood  beneath  the  stars  like 
millions  of  other  cottages  scattered  over  the  country- 
side. By  day  I  was  alive  and  moving  about,  my  ego 
was  radiating  forth,  absorbing,  soaking  up  my 
environment  so  that  I  became  a  larger  being  with  a 
larger  ego.  By  night  I  shrank  to  a  spot.  The 
thought  made  me  catch  my  breath. 

IX. 

The  loneliness  of  life  is  sometimes  appalling ! 
There  is  the  loneliness  known  to  most  when  in 
moments  of  exaltation  a  man  feels  genius  stir  within 


36  CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON 

him  like  a  child  in  the  womb  of  its  mother,  and  knows 
that  he  cannot  express  himself.  He  wishes  to  embrace 
the  whole  world  and  yet  cannot  stir  a  limb;  he  wishes 
to  tell  the  whole  world  his  good  tidings  and  draw  it 
to  himself,  yet  he  cannot  utter  a  sound.  In  all  great 
crises  we  are  alone.  The  greatest  things  are  incom- 
municable. I  was  once  walking  on  the  sands  by  the 
sea  when  a  great  wave  of  joyfulness  swept  across  me. 
I  stood  upon  a  rock  and  waved  my  stick  about  and 
sang.  I  wanted  the  sands  to  be  crowded  with  a  greal 
male  voice  chorus — hundreds  of  thousands  of  men— 
so  many  that  there  should  be  no  standing  room  for 
more.  I  imagined  myself  standing  above  them,  a 
physical  and  musical  Titan  on  the  top  of  a  high 
mountain  as  high  as  Mont  Blanc,  conducting  with  a 
baton  as  large  as  a  barge  pole.  The  breakers  would 
boom  an  accompaniment,  but  the  chorus  would  be 
heard  above  everything  else  and  even  God  Himself 
would  turn  from  schemes  for  new  planets  (and  less 
hopeless  ones  than  this)  to  fling  a  regret  for  injustice 
done  to  such  spirited  people  ! 

So  in  the  crises  of  pain  you  are  alone.  If  you  have 
a  cold  in  the  head  you  can  tell  your  friend  and  he 
condoles  with  you.  But  if  you  develop  an  incurable 
disease,  it  is  impossible  for  your  closest  friend  to  offer 
his  paltry  sympathy.*     It  would  be  impertinent  for 

*  See  The  Journal  of  a  Disappointed  Man,  November  27th, 
1915.     (More  irony.) 
It  may  be  explained  here  that  after  the  destruction  of  the 


CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON  3; 

him  to  offer  a  remark  when  the  mills  of  God  have 
once  caught  you  and  begun  to  grind  you  out.  It  is 
an  affair  beyond  man's  scope.  Man  cannot  presume 
on  God.  Similarly  in  crises  of  the  heart.  At  the  time 
you  cannot  utter  your  misery.  And  afterwards,  you 
are  glad  to  be  finished  with  it,  and  so  no  one  knows. 

But  we  are  alone  not  only  in  crises.  We  are  really 
alone  in  the  ordinary  thoughts  and  emotions  of  every 
day  :  the  simplest  movements  of  the  soul  are  incom- 
municable. A  recent  writer  says,  and  says  truly,  "  By 
no  Art  may  the  Ego  be  made  manifest  even  to  itself." 
So  that  we  are  lonely  even  in  ourselves  and  strangers 
to  ourselves,  so  that  I  echo  with  enthusiasm  Balzac's 
remark  that  nothing  interested  him  so  much  as 
himself. 

X. 

There  is  a  deep-lying  desire  in  most  of  us  to  be 
immanent  in  all  life.  I  regret  I  was  not  alive  in  the 
days  of  ancient  Rome.  To  have  been  non-existent 
and  unconsidered  in  such  great  affairs  stings  me 
sharply !  I  seem  to  be  a  sort  of  serious  village  idiot 
whose  desire  to  help  is  viewed  with  smiles  or  friendly 

doctor's  certificate  described  under  this  date,  it  became  im- 
mediately necessary  to  obtain  another  as  soon  as  conscription 
came  into  force.  It  is  this  second  certificate  that  is  mentioned 
subsequently  (/^6u/.,  p.  260),  but  its  history,  though  clear  in  the 
Journal  MS.,  was  inadvertently  omitted  from  the  book  as 
published. — Ed. 


38  CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON 

tolerance,  or  rise  is  simply  icrnored— an  energetic  fly 
on  a  great  wheel,  puling  out  remonstrances  because  he 
isn't  the  engineer.  I  am  piqued  because  T  was  not  a 
witness  of  the  gambollings  of  Dinosaurs  and  Ptero- 
dactyls. Yet  I  lay  unthought  of  in  the  womb  of  a 
mother  whose  species  was  still  unevolved.  God  does 
not  appear  to  have  taken  me  into  consideration  at  all ! 
In  fact  it  is  hard  to  bring  myself  to  believe  that  men 
lived  so  long  ago  in  Rome,  Carthage,  Babylon, 
Nineveh,  just  as  we  are  now  alive,  or  that  there  ever 
really  existed  such  things  as  Pterodactyls  and 
Dinosaurs.  I  am  taught  to  believe  such  things,  but 
where  is  the  man  who  really  knows?  "I  wonder,  by 
my  troth,  what  you  and  T  did  till  we  loved.  ..."  I 
am  in  love  with  life  and  can  hardly  believe  it,  just  as 
a  man  in  love  with  a  woman  can  scarcely  believe  that 
she  was  in  the  world  before  he  knew  her.  We  are  in- 
formed that  every  reason  is  in  favour  of  the  earth 
being  round,  but  no  one  has  actually  seen  that  it  is 
round.  We  believe  theoretically  in  the  millions  of 
beings  who  inhabit  China,  but  the  existence  of  so 
many  people  is  part  of  no  one's  real  knowledge.  We 
are  unable  to  realize  truly  the  few  millions  of  people 
that  live  with  us  in  the  city  of  London.  No  one  but 
Jesus  Christ  could  have  wept  over  a  whole  town.  The 
ordinary  man's  compassion  is  too  little.  If  Xerxes 
really  wept  over  his  army,  he  was  a  great  soul. 

The  mind  comprehends  only  the  inmates  of  his  own 


CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON  39 

drawing-room,  his  own  household  or  his  little  circle 
of  friends.  That  is  the  real  world — even  of  the  large- 
souled  Mrs.  Jellyby !  The  world  beyond — the 
heathen  of  the  Dark  Continent — must  be  accepted 
as  a  corollary.  It  is  a  little  shock  of  surprise,  not 
unmingled  with  regret,  every  time  I  leave  home  and 
wander  abroad,  to  see  thousands  of  other  people  like 
myself  scurrying  like  rabbits  over  the  earth's  surface. 
They  upset  my  equilibrium.  I  come  tumbling  down 
into  the  guise  of  a  mere  unit  of  the  population.  As  I 
near  home  once  more,  I  grow  big  again — like  Alice — 
until  once  again  in  the  family  circle  I  assume  my 
original  dimensions  :  very  comfortable  it  is,  too. 

The  world  is  "so  full  of  a  number  of  things" — 
there  are  so  many  blades  of  grass,  such  a  prodigious 
quantity  of  leaves  on  the  trees  and  so  many — far  too 
many — stars  in  the  sky.  Their  quantity  depresses 
me.  If  there  were  but  one  of  each  sort  it  would  be 
easy  to  understand  the  ingenuous  enthusiasm  of  the 
man  of  science,  who  even  as  it  is  realizes  and  never 
ceases  to  insist  that  the  study  which  a  man  may 
devote  to  but  a  single  creature  is  infinite.  How 
depressing ! 

XL 

Perhaps  all  our  knowledge  and  experience  is  a 
stupendous  dream.  Matter  may  be  non-existent  and 
time  and  space  categories  in  which  to  think,  as  those 
deep  and  entertaining  men,  the  philosophers,  tell  us. 
Yet  the  distilled  water  of  philosophical  speculation  is 


40  CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON 

a  poor  substitute  for  the  wine  of  life.  For  I  should 
like  to  be  alive  continuously — now  that  I  have  at 
length  a  footing  in  this  ramshackle  world  —  to 
watch  developments,  to  see  revolutions  and  evolu- 
tions, above  all  the  climax,  whatever  that  may  be.  I 
am  glad  to  have  been  alive,  to  have  known  how  the 
Titanic  went  down  and  how  Scott  died  in  the  Ant- 
arctic. I  am  happy  at  the  thought  that  I  have  lived  to 
see  men  fly  like  birds  over  the  country  and  to  read  the 
poems  of  Francis  Thompson.  We  live  in  extremely 
interesting  times,  but  how  will  things  fadge  in  the 
future  ?  When  will  socialism  come  ?  What  will 
biology  do  with  evolution  ?  Who  will  be  the  next 
world-genius  ?  Yet  in  a  little  while  I  know  I  shall  be 
dead  and  probably  as  unconscious  and  unconsidered 
as  before — a  heap  of  ashes  within  four  rotten  planks. 

The  future  has  a  fascination  for  me  which  I  cannot 
resist.  I  take  a  gambler's  feverish  interest  in  it.  Life 
is  as  exciting  as  a  game  of  cards  or  a  holiday  at 
Monte  Carlo.  We  turn  up  each  day  like  a  card  and  if 
we  are  optimists  expect  it  to  be  the  ace  of  trumps. 
Each  day  brings  with  it  a  piece  of  the  unknown  and 
each  evening  we  have  definitely  annexed  a  piece  of 
what  in  the  morning  was  unknowable.  When  a  man 
dies,  it  is  a  shock.  Yet  there  is  always  the  satisfac- 
tion of  knowing  that  the  end  came  in  such  a  manner 
and  on  such  a  da}'.  A  man  sets  out  to  accomplish 
some    great    task,    to    portray    the    Human    comedy 


CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON  41 

(Balzac)  or  to  write  the  history  of  the  Roman  Empire 
(Gibbon).  Day  follows  day  and  carries  him  a  stage 
nearer  the  desired  end.  "  Shall  I  finish  it  ?"  he  asks 
himself,  and  strains  his  eyes,  peering  into  the  future  in 
vain.  He  labours  on  with  all  the  intense  excitement 
of  a  race  but  with  none  of  its  bustle,  till  the  last  day 
comes  and  he  writes  "  Finis  "  with  a  sigh  and  drops 
his  pen.  It  is  an  eerie  business — exploring  the  tor- 
tuous galleries  of  time. 

XII. 

As  I  finish  writing  this  entry  in  front  of  my  window, 
the  sun  is  going  down.  I  review  my  desires  as  they 
come  crowding  past !  I  have  searched  every  quarter 
of  my  existence  and  everywhere  I  have  found  more 
and  more  desires  for  life.  I  turn  them  out  and  they 
ioin  in  the  procession.  I  watch  it,  brooding — hand  on 
cheek  like  Carlyle — until  a  final  birth-throe  of  desire 
is  brought  forth  —  consummating  all  the  others ! 
I  desire  to  draw  together  all  the  knowledge  of  the 
world,  past,  present,  and  future,  and  to  be  conscious 
of  it  as  a  single  simultaneous  phenomenon,  just  as 
soon  as  a  signal,  such  as  the  fall  of  a  hammer  on  an 
anvil,  should  be  given  to  me.  ...  It  was  simply 
impious  !  But,  surely,  if  ever,  it  would  be  then,  in 
that  moment,  that  the  meaning  of  the  universe  would 
stand  revealed  and  the  craving  for  the  intellectual 
satisfaction  of  final  and  complete  knowledge  would 


42  CRYING  FOR  THE  MOON 

abate.  I  should  drink  my  fill  of  beauty  and  have  no 
longer  any  dread  of  finding  at  the  bottom  of  the  cup 
the  ghost-like  enigma  that  haunts  all  beautiful  things. 
The  world  would  be  beautiful — and  intelligible  as 
well  I  should  breathe  a  sigh  and  rest.  The  loss  of 
one's  personal  immortality  or  personal  identity  would 
be  a  small  price  to  pay  for  such  an  immeasurable  gain. 

But  vain  imaginings  all  these! — leaving  me  torn, 
dSchire,  blinded  !  In  the  impious  desire  to  know  and 
feel  everything  from  the  beginning  to  the  end,  to  be 
immanent  in  everything,  I  was  climbing  up  the  battle- 
ments toward  eternity.  The  Olympians  seeing  me 
down  in  the  distance  very  properly  cast  me  back  into 
the  pit  of  mortal  life — just  as  they  cast  Satan,  the 
apostate  angel,  out  of  Heaven.  Satan  was  a  lucky 
devil :  he  carried  down  with  him  at  least  the  memory 
of  Heaven. 

So  be  it,  then.  Let  me  return  to  my  insects  and 
worms.  In  fact,  the  man  who  on  seeing  before  him, 
fresh  and  brilliant,  a  plant — the  scarlet  pimpernel — or 
a  worm — the  mullein  moth  caterpillar — still  continues 
in  pain  and  anguish  to  cry  for  the  moon,  would  be 
scarcely  human.  Give  me  the  man  who  will  surrender 
the  whole  world  for  a  moss  or  a  caterpillar,  and  im- 
practicable visions  for  a  simple  human  delight.  Yes, 
that  shall  be  my  practice.  I  prefer  Richard  Jefferies  to 
Swedenborg  and  Oscar  Wilde  to  Thomas  a  Kempis. 


THE  INSULATION  OF  THE  EGO 

December  loth,  1914. — Day  after  day,  month  after 
month  throughout  the  year  in  dizzy  revolutions  I  go 
on  meeting  the  same  people  doing  the  same  thing  at 
the  same  time — the  same  lukewarm  railway  official 
like  some  huge  mechanical  doll  clipping  tickets  as  the 
silent  procession  of  suburban  dummies  carrying  news- 
papers and  despatch  cases  files  past  the  barrier  to 
catch  the  9.1;  there  is  always  the  same  loquacious 
newsvendor  with  the  same  parrot-cry,  "  Mr.  Cook  is 
always  ready  to  serve  you,  Sir  " ;  and  just  within  the 
Museum  itself  stands  the  same  slit-eyed  policeman — a 
monster  figure  that  supports  the  arch  and  touches  its 
hat  with  a  movement  of  the  right  hand.  Every  day 
all  these  and  a  hundred  others  are  doing  the  same 
thing  in  the  same  spot  almost  to  a  square  inch,  and  it 
is  difficult  to  believe  that  they  are  ever  away  or  that 
they  ever  do  anything  else.  I  forget  that  they  are 
human  beings  and  have  stomachs  and  opinions. 
Routine  induces  a  sort  of  somnambulism.  The  in- 
cessant revolution  of  days— daylight  and  darkness, 
daylight  and  darkness  like  the  opening  and  closing  of 
a  camera's  shutter  worked  continuously — hypnotizes 

43 


44        THE  INSULATION  OF  THE  EGO 

the  mind  into  a  dull,  glassy  intentness  on  the  private 
business  in  hand.  The  world  is  a  machine  and  spins 
like  a  governor;  all  these  people  are  just  so  many 
automata. 

One  day  the  policeman  said  to  me,  "  Good  news, 
Sir,  this  morning."  I  vi^as  so  surprised  I  hardly  knew 
what  to  answer  for  a  moment.  It  pulled  me  out  of  my 
stupor  for  a  day  or  so,  and  set  me  wondering  at  the 
extraordinary  aloofness  and  insulation  of  my  life.  I 
must  certainly  invite  these  automata  to  a  rendezvous 
one  day  at  the  nearest  hotel,  just  to  see  if  their  clock- 
work can  swallow  beer. 

The  fact  of  the  matter  is  we  have  no  intelligent 
curiosity.  Provided  other  folk  do  their  duty  by  us, 
that  is  all  we  care.  To  the  employer,  employees  are 
merely  "  hands  " ;  to  the  General,  soldiers  are  so  many 
"  rifles." 

February  22nd,  igi S- — Every  man  is  an  island.  I 
sit  awhile  in  Hyde  Park  and  watch  the  folk — rich 
Jews,  peers,  guardsmen.  Beau  Brummels — see  how 
they  pass,  self  absorbed,  ego  centric.  No  one  interests 
them  save  themselves.  Everyone  else  is  looked 
through  or  looked  over  or  not  seen  at  all.  They  all 
sweep  past  with  an  arrogant  self-sufficiency  without 
curiosity  and  without  observation.  It  makes  me  feel 
I  am  an  apparition,  visible  to  only  a  few. 

I  spend  the  whole  morning   passing   in   and   out 


THE   INSULATION   OF   THE   EGO       45 

among  this  crowd,  seizing  snippets  of  conversation, 
staring  for  as  long  as  I  dare,  determined  for  at  least 
one  day  in  seven  to  shake  off  my  hypnosis.  I  should 
like  to  have  a  psychological  jemmy  to  prise  open  the 
minds  of  some  of  these  strange,  secretive  men  and 
women  flowing  along,  to  rifle  the  caskets  of  their 
innermost  consciousness  of  all  its  wealth  of  personality 
and  life  history.  If  I  were  a  millionaire  (so  I  fancy — 
for  to-day  I  am  devoured  by  curiosity)  I  would  hire 
an  army  of  private  detectives  merely  to  satisfy  my 
curiosity  about  some  of  the  people  I  see  in  the  streets 
of  London,  It  would  be  so  jolly  on  observing  a  face 
or  an  incident  to  be  able  to  turn  to  the  detective 
accompanying  me  and  say  "  Please  follow  this  up  and 
let  me  have  your  report  by  Monday  next."  No  crumb 
of  information  about  some  folk  is  too  small  to  be  con- 
temned. It  would  be  interesting  to  know  if  that  man 
uses  "  Baffo "  for  his  moustache  or  why  he  caUs  his 
dog  "  Tiddly-Winks."  I  should  be  grateful  for  that 
woman's  Christian  name  (it  is  surely  Cynthia,  or 
Cecilia  ?).  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  put  a  penny  in 
each  one's  slot  and  draw  out  the  story  of  his  life  in  a 
long  tape. 

Englishmen  are  difficult  to  get  to  know.  Within 
the  circle  of  their  own  collars,  trespassers  will  be  prose- 
cuted. They  have  a  splendid  aristocratic  reticence 
about  themselves.  And  if  you  seem  too  curious,  the 
healthy-minded,  English  stalwart  shakes  his  fist  at 


46        THE  INSULATION  OF  THE  EGO 

the  intruder  and  warns  him  that  an  Enghshman's 
home  is  his  castle.  Warm  and  comfortable  within  his 
own  fur-lined  coat  of  self-esteem,  securely  veiled  by 
this  impenetrable  cloth  he  gazes  out  upon  the  candid 
man,  who  casts  his  clouts — even  the  napkin  about  his 
loins — as  if  he  were  a  shivering  lunatic.  Ah  !  you 
furtive  gentleman  !  it  is  pleasant  to  play  the  detective 
with  you  !  In  spite  of  }our  precautionary  measures, 
many  of  your  secrets  are  easily  found  out  and  even 
some  of  your  solid  caskets  rifled  upon  a  little  careful 
scrutiny.  You  all  have  a  naked  body  I  know.  And 
you  all  have  a  naked  soul  behind  those  barricades  and 
bastions  with  which  you  face  the  world.  Why  not 
confess  ?  Why  this  studied  insulation.  Why  cut 
yourself  off  from  your  fellows  ?  Have  you  never  a 
desire  to  strip  the  body  bare — as  a  sacrament,  to  rend 
the  veil  of  every  temple — out  of  curiosity,  to  dynamite 
every  cabal,  to  shout  into  every  silence  and  reveal  all 
that  lies  hid  anywhere  ? — Aye  and  to  scorn  that 
crawling  hypocrisy  I  read  just  now  in  the  newspaper 
— "  She  led  a  certain  life,"  meaning  she  was  a  ivhore. 
»  «  »  «  « 

Confession  is  good  for  the  soul,  and  is  the  only 
foundation  for  a  perfect  union  of  the  heart.  It  indi- 
cates, at  any  rate,  a  desire  to  have  the  light  of  day 
upon  dark  places ;  it  invites  consideration  and  investi- 
gation, although  it  does  not  mean  that  we  shall  thereby 
win  the  sympathy  and  understanding  of  others.  .  .  . 


THE  INSULATION  OF  THE  EGO        4; 

"  Is  there  any  person  in  the  whole  wide  world,"  asked 
Henry  Rycroft  in  the  Private  Papers,  "  on  whom  I 
could  invariably  rely  for  perfect  sympathy  ?"  Do  two 
souls  ever  fit  absolutely  slick  into  one  another  ?  It 
seems  rather  that  there  is  always  some  rub  that  has 
to  be  eased,  some  little  piece  of  behaviour  or  some 
opinion  that  will  never  be  understood  even  by  our 
dearest  friend.  And  a  single  misunderstanding  bars 
the  way  to  perfect  sympathy.  As  between  the  most 
intimately  blended  friends — Patroclus  and  Achilles, 
Orestes  and  Pylades,  Damon  and  Pythias — there  are 
some  matters  always  held  carefully  in  reserve — the 
heart  of  everyone  contains  secrets  he  dare  never  com- 
municate. As  for  marriage,  intellectual  honesty 
between  husband  and  wife  is  ever  a  dangerous  experi- 
ment and  one  which  few  could  practise  if  they  would. 
For  love  is  a  fog  and  most  marriages  are  built  on 
inaccuracies  if  not  on  lies.  Yet  how  can  anyone  be 
perfectly  loved  if  he  cannot  be  perfectly  understood. 
Had  Leander  lived,  Hero  may  have  had  a  very 
different  tale  to  tell  of  him.  And  we  have  yet  to  learn 
the  subsequent  history  of  King  Cophetua  and  his 
beggar-maid — probably  a  very  ill-assorted  couple 
indeed. 

Confession,  moreover,  is  a  difficult  duty,  for  it 
implies  self-knowledge,  and  accurate  self-knowledge 
is  as  rare  as  a  blue  moon.  Yet,  if  we  do  not  know 
ourselves,  how  can  we  expect  our  friends  to  know  us  ? 


48        THE  INSULATION  OF  THE  EGO 

Truth  to  tell  we  are  so  completely  insulated  that  no 
soul  ever  comes  into  actual  contact  with  another.  We 
may  stand  in  the  apposition  of  friendship  or  be 
bracketed  together  for  life  in  holy  wedlock.  But  true 
contact  is  never  established.  "I  love  you" — how  the 
words  have  goaded  the  inarticulate  lover  to  despair- 
ing parrot-like  repetition.  Whenever  one  ego  purposes 
to  hold  communication  with  another,  the  concentric 
barriers  of  matter  can  scarcely  be  overcome  by  em- 
ploying human  vocables  —  crude,  hefty,  obstinate 
words.  That  is  why  comfortable  philosophers  like 
Maeterlinck  (and  Thoreau  before  him)  have  so  many 
seductive  remarks  on  silence.  Maeterlinck  knows 
that  man  is  only  half  articulate,  so  he  consoles  himself 
with  extolling  the  wonder  and  magic  of  silence ! 
That  is  so  like  the  adaptable  human  being  !  Self- 
expression  is  an  impossible  ideal — our  warmest 
emotions  must  be  impounded  in  cold  brute  words — 
even  the  best  and  most  beautiful  are  merely  verbiage 
so  long  as  we  are  under  the  influence  of  a  great 
experience.    So  we  pretend  that  silence  is  all  in  all. 

June  6th,  igi S- — There  are  times  when  nothing 
satisfies.  This  evening  I  looked  at  the  sunset  with 
clouds  piled  up  like  the  Halls  of  Valhalla.  But  I 
wanted  more.  My  mind  restlessly  ran  over  the  facts  : 
clouds  —  suspended  moisture ;  colour  —  atmospheric 
dust.      I    scoffed.      How    humiliating    that    seemed. 


THE  INSULATION  OF  THE  EGO        49 

Sheer  physical  beauty  was  not  enough.  I  wanted  to 
be  more  intimate  with  the  beauty  I  watched  from  the 
outside — a  spectator  only.  I  would  enter  into  the 
sunset  completely  in  some  perfect  and  beautiful 
Atonement. 

I  am  tired  of  being  fended  off,  tired  of  my  insula- 
tion; I  want  to  touch  beauty,  or  actually  to  touch 
some  other  person.  In  such  a  mood  I  could  listen,  say, 
to  Schubert's  Unfinished  Symphony,  and  laugh  at  it 
derisively.  How  futile  even  for  that  great  soul  to 
attempt  to  escape  out  of  his  mortality  in  self  expres- 
sion by  a  vehicle  so  coarse  and  so  inadequate.  "  Is  it 
not  a  strange  thing,"  asks  Benedick,  "  that  sheep's 
guts  should  hale  men's  souls  out  of  their  bodies  ?"  It 
is  indeed  strange — and  humiliating. 

In  these  moments  of  icy  exaltation,  I  spurn  the 
instrument  of  every  art.  I  read  through  the  Ode  on  a 
Grecian  Urn  and  under  an  overwhelming  conviction 
of  clairvoyance,  for  a  moment  or  two  perceive  the 
coarseness  and  ineptitude  of  an  art  that  uses  queer 
looking  written  symbols  to  represent  certain  curious 
sounds.  Then  I  look  down  through  "  La  Belle  Dame 
sans  Merci "  in  a  purely  quizzical  way  and  feel  piqued 
at  it — that  is  all.  Generation  after  generation  is  lured 
towards  this  marvellous  work  of  art,  but  no  one  as  yet 
has  succeeded  in  laying  sacrilegious  hands  upon  its 
Holy  Grail.  Those  few  verses  of  the  apothecary  youth 
will  always  remain  as  much  a  mystery  as  the  Trinity. 

4 


50        THE  INSULATION  OF  THE  EGO 

He  did  not  understand  himself  what  it  was  he  had 
written.  They  were  just  a  few  lines  stuck  into  a  letter 
to  a  friend  one  day.  "  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci  "  is 
a  taunt,  an  aggressive,  bristling  enigma,  an  impudent 
conundrum. 

Artists  must  be  the  most  miserable  of  men  :  for  they 
are  men  with  human  capacities  and  yet  with  God 
Almighty's  passion  to  create.  That  is  why  some 
artists  seem  mad  or  gradually  become  unintelligible. 
Inside  or  behind  every  masterpiece  may  be  heard  the 
faint  rumour  of  a  soul  in  travail  going  round  and 
round  in  vain  endeavour  to  escape.  In  his  passionate 
endeavour  to  break  his  bonds  the  great  artist  strains 
his  art  to  breaking  point :  pictures  become  unin- 
telligible daubs,  music  becomes  cacophony  and  poetry 
hysteria.  And  the  wise  man  comes  to  speak  in  unin- 
telligible riddles.  Insane  artists  !  —  what  glimpses 
they  may  have  had  !  Mad  Blake  !  What  did  he  see  ? 
— Mad  philosophers! — blinded  perhaps  in  an  ex- 
plosion of  light. 

February  2'/th,  igi6. — Man  is  so  securely  cut  off 
and  surrounded,  so  perfectly  insulated,  that  he  cannot 
get  out  into  the  life  beyond  himself  nor  can  anything 
beyond  get  into  him.  Nothing  ever  actually  touches 
him.    He  has  buffers,  fenders,  bastions. 

$hould  any  experience,  any  emotion,  whether  grief 


THE  INSULATION  OF  THE  EGO        51 

or  joy,  of  powerful  voltage  really  establish  a  contact, 
death  would  be  instantaneous  from  electrocution. 
Mankind  knows  this  and  therefore  takes  the  necessary 
precautions,  meeting  the  assaults  of  the  world  with 
every  kuid  of  safeguard.  He  patches  grief  with 
proverbs  and  makes  misfortune  drunk  with  candle 
wasters.  "  Afflictions  induce  callosities,"  says  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  "  and  the  smartest  strokes  of  afflic- 
tion leave  but  short  smart  upon  us."  He  drugs 
himself  with  the  anodyne  of  Christian  consolations, 
shirking  the  poignancy  of  a  grief  that  should  electro- 
cute, wilJi  some  glib  quotation  from  the  New 
Testament.  Man  shuffles  out  of  his  miseries  by  self- 
indulgence  in  casuistical  ethics,  anointing  his  despair 
with  talk  about  patriotism,  self-sacrifice,  and  national 
duty. 

Man  is  a  pitifully  adaptable  creature.  He  works  in 
coal  mines  and  sewers,  he  lives  on  fifteen  shillings  a 
week,  he  volunteers  for  the  prospect  of  dismember- 
ment by  a  German  shell,  when  before,  perhaps,  he 
would  complain  bitterly  of  a  scratch  from  a  briar. 
Even  this  terrible  agony  of  war,  Time  and  the  news- 
papers' chatter  are  helping  us  to  reduce  to  the  level  of 
Parliamentary  News  or  "  City  Gossip."  It  may  seem 
a  mocking  remark  to  make  at  this  time,  but  few,  if 
any,  realize  the  accumulated  horrors  of  the  war.  Such 
suffering  is  beyond  the  capacity  of  the  human  soul  to 
experience.     We   are   too   small,   too   insulated,   too 


52        THE  INSULATION  OF  THE  EGO 

egoistic.  We  may  weep  for  our  own  sorrows  or  those 
of  immediate  friends,  and  even  (if  we  have  the  good- 
will) try  in  imagination  to  multiply  that  grief  by 
millions  (as  if  grief  were  arithmetic!),  yet  we  should 
still  be  far  from  even  a  crude  realization  of  the  collec- 
tive horrors  of  the  war — our  souls  are  too  small,  too 
circumscribed  and  petty.  If  man  had  what  Shelley 
called  the  Creative  Faculty  to  imagine  what  they 
know — wars  would  cease. 

To  be  candid,  man  is  ineradicably  commonplace. 
No  sooner  is  he  the  fortunate  possessor  of  some 
beautiful  grief  that  should  be  inconsolable,  than 
maybe  a  fortnight,  a  month,  a  year  later,  his  con- 
sciousness, working  industriously  upon  it,  has  reduced 
it  to  more  comfortable  proportions.  If  he  wrings  his 
hands,  he  will  soon  be  ringing  the  bells.  Time  heals, 
we  say.  But  there  is  something  about  Time's  irre- 
sistible therapeutic  properties  that  in  result  is  almost 
ridiculous.  My  happiness  this  year  makes  my  grief 
two  years  ago  childish,  impertinent.  Yet,  if  I  had 
possessed  the  decent  steadfastness  of  feeling  to  con- 
tinue to  grieve,  my  friends  would  have  said  I  was 
morbid  and  silly.  Last  month  I  was  in  despair. 
To-day  my  circumstances  are  absolutely  unchanged, 
except  that  Time  has  applied  his  balsam  and  I  am 
cheerful  once  more. 

Nothing  breaks  a  man.  He  will  brag  about  his 
misfortunes  as  loudly   as  about   his  successes.     No 


THE  INSULATION  OF  THE  EGO        53 

shock  penetrates  behind  his  insulation.  He  is  jolted, 
perhaps,  but  not  killed.  Grief  is  often  a  luxury.  To 
restore  the  limb  to  a  beggar  with  a  wooden  leg  would 
be  almost  his  displeasure. 

It  is  impossible  to  circumvent  the  human  soul — that 
precious  quiddity  that  triumphs  over  all  things, 
suffereth  all  things,  is  not  easily  provoked.  But  the 
psychological  truth  is  that  the  so-called  conquests  of 
the  soul  are  usually  only  strategical  retreats  dictated 
by  the  instinct  for  preservation  of  self.  My  own 
"  conquest  "  was  only  a  retreat.  From  a  crisis  in  which 
I  should  have  fought  to  the  death  I  shrewdly  retired ; 
in  a  prolonged  and  almost  continuous  period  of  the 
most  revolting  ill-health,  instead  of  becoming  rebel 
and  paying  the  last  penalty  for  it,  I  developed  the 
shameless  endurance  of  a  beast  of  burden — meekly 
shouldered  my  cross,  and  was  even  cheerful  about  it — 
that  is  what  disgusts  me.  Me  and  men  like  me  no 
amount  of  chastisement  would  ever  correct.  We  just 
go  on  calling  out  "The  Devil  a  bit!  Cheero  !"  like 
the  Parrot  in  the  thunderstorm,  poor  foolish  ridiculous 
bird. 

By  withdrawing  here,  giving  ground  there,  and  in 
general  retreating  along  all  my  line  of  life,  I  have 
fended  off  the  enemy  armed  with  the  scythe,  and  saved 
remnants  of  my  forces  such  as  they  are,  where,  in  a 
similar  case,  a  man  of  courage  would  have  joined 
battle  and  overcome  him,  for  it  is  "great  to  do  that 


54        THE  INSULATION  OF  THE  EGO 

thing  that  ends  all  other  deeds,  which  shackles  acci- 
dents and  bolts  up  change." 

And  as  with  his  pains,  so  also  with  his  pleasures. 
No  joy  sends  a  man  crazy.  He  is  ecstatic  for  a 
morning  perhaps,  but  he  soon  settles  down.  He  has 
not  the  strength  of  soul  to  keep  long  at  the  top  of  his 
compass  or  at  the  bottom.  And  in  our  inmost  heart, 
with  what  superlative  self-contempt  do  we  watch  our 
joy  or  sorrow  die  down  and  disappear  ! 

No  wonder  bowls  us  out.  To  all  the  marvellous 
things  of  the  universe — the  sun  overhead,  the  little 
blue  flowers  at  our  feet,  to  birds  and  aeroplanes 
travelling  through  the  air — we  extend  an  oily,  vulgar 
familiarity.  Where  we  should  stand  hat  in  hand  at  a 
respectful  distance  we  advance,  and  with  a  careless 
jerk  of  the  head  signify  acquaintance.  As  Carlyle 
said  :  the  average  man  regards  the  making  of  a  world 
with  about  as  much  wonder  as  the  baking  of  an  apple 
dumpling. 

The  consciousness  is  like  some  baneful  atmosphere. 
As  soon  as  they  enter  it,  our  emotions,  at  first  like 
glorious  white-hot  stars,  rapidly  cool  down  to  finish 
up  often  as  cold  as  the  moon. 

Poor  human  frailty  !  We  are  only  children,  with 
new  toys,  and  broken  toys  and  old  familiar  toys.  Our 
greatest  experiences  are  only  nursery  episodes  and 
our  greatest  emotions  only  a  little  less  fleeting  than 
the  tears  of  childhood.     Even  Job  lived  to  the  age  of 


THE  INSULATION  OF  THE  EGO       55 

140,  and  became  happy  in  the  possession  of  beautiful 
daughters,  and  God  knows  how  many  valuable  she- 
asses.  Yet  this  was  the  fellow  who  cursed  the  day  he 
was  born. 

Perfect  dignity  is  denied  us.  For  if  we  persisted  in 
grief  we  are  morbid,  and  if  we  sweep  on  with  the  tide 
our  memories  are  ridiculously  short  and — out  of  sight, 
out  of  mind.    So  wags  the  world. 

***** 

March  loth,  igi6. — It  is  a  nauseating  fact  which 
must  nevertheless  be  owned,  that  however  miserable 
or  despairing  a  man  may  be  he  loves  himself  ever.  No 
lunge  from  the  sharpest  rapier  penetrates  his  self- 
esteem.  Right  in  there  in  the  centre  of  his  being,  he 
keeps  his  lonely  court.  In  sickness,  in  health,  in 
sorrow,  joy,  failure,  or  success,  in  every  conceivable 
set  of  circumstances,  the  ego  sits  enthroned,  sur- 
rounded only  by  the  bodyguard  of  his  own  self- 
consciousness,  self-pity,  self-admiration,  self-love,  and 
from  these  not  even  the  anarchy  of  self-hate  can  drive 
him  forth,  for  he  will  still  love  himself  m  hating  him- 
self for  his  own  self-love.  If  I  claim  to  be  incon- 
solable, you  know  I  am  already  sucking  consolation 
from  the  very  fact  of  my  being  inconsolable.  Con- 
sciousness of  self  shadows  us  all.  As  soon  as  I  have 
a  generous  impulse  or  do  a  generous  deed,  my  poll 
clerk  and  shadow  registers  it,  and  the  virtue  goes  out 
of  me.    If  I  make  a  witty  remark,  a  bell  rings  within 


56        THE  INSULATION  OF  THE  EGO 

me — and  1  can  scarcely  conceal  my  confusion.  Some 
of  the  emotion  at  Swift's  Epitaph  : 

"  Ubi  sasva  indignatio 
Coi"  uUcrius  lacerarc  nequit 

leaves  us  when  we  hnd  he  wrote  it  himself;  and  when 
Mr.  H.  G.  Wells  remarks  that  all  sound,  sober,  and 
sane-minded  men  are  hopeful  of  progress,  you  know- 
he  is  thinking  of  Mr,  H.  G.  Wells.  The  automatic 
self-approval  of  the  self-consciousness  is  like  some 
ridiculous  chorus  pursuing  a  man  across  the  stage  of 
life  and  turning  it  into  o-pera-bouffe.  It  is  a  strange 
thing  that  man  so  small  should  be  so  full  of  self.  Is 
there  anything  more  contemptible  to  the  looker-on 
than  the  egotism  of  a  tiny  Ego.  What,  then,  must 
God  think  ?  How  laughable  it  is  that  every  one, 
however  impoverished  in  soul  or  intellect,  insists  on 
clinging  to  his  own  identity,  and  would  not  exchange 
himself  even  with  Shakespeare  ! 

The  Ego  is  a  monarch,  and,  like  a  monarch,  un- 
approachable. In  every  one  of  us  our  insulation  is 
complete. 


INFINITIES. 

March  8th,  igi S- — On  the  top  of  an  empty  omnibus 
to-day  I  cast  my  eye  for  a  second  at  a  little  heap  of 
dirty  used-up  'bus  tickets  collected  by  chance  up  in 
one  corner.  The  sight  of  them  unnerved  me.  For  a 
moment  I  felt  almost  physically  sick.  This  feeling 
was  so  instantaneous  that  it  was  some  time  later  that 
I  discovered  the  cause  of  it,  when  I  began  to  reflect 
upon  all  the  implications  which  the  little  heap  of 
tickets  sent  ramifying  through  the  eye  to  the  brain — 
the  number  of  persons,  for  example,  that  daily  boarded 
this  vehicle,  each  one  bent  on  his  little  project,  making 
use  of  the  'bus,  then  passing  out  of  it  again;  the 
number  ot  miles  the  'bus  traversed  each  day,  the 
number  of  'buses  "  honking  "  through  the  streets  and 
all  this  cataract  of  London  life.  My  nerves  throbbed 
with  the  ache  of  it  all.  In  London  even  the  names 
over  the  shop  windows  scuffle  and  light  with  one 
another  and  with  you  as  you  pass ;  advertisements  on 
hoardings,  walls,  windows,  scream  at  you,  wheedle 
you,  interrogate,  advise,  suggest.  At  all  times  the  ear 
catches  fragments  of  conversation  as  the  crowds  pass 
along  the  streets,  or  the  trample  of  their  footsteps  as 

11 


58  INFINITIES 

they  rush  up  and  down  wooden  stairways  to  the  trains 
— both  above  ground  and  below  ground — a  maelstrom 
of  activity. 

After  a  long  ride  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus  along 
the  main  arteries  of  traffic  I  always  experience  that 
dazed  muddled  sensation  which  comes  from  looking 
too  long  into  the  Milky  Way.  Consecutive  thought 
or  reflection  become  impossible — by  the  end  of  the 
journey  I  am  merely  a  mechanical  registering  instru- 
ment ticking  off  such  fatuous  impressions  as — "  What 
a  funny  name  over  that  shop,"  or  "  That  is  a  nice 
house,"  or  "  How  funnily  that  man  walks."  It  is 
appalling  to  reflect  that  each  church  passed  attracts 
its  little  group  of  worshippers  and  is  familiar  to  them 
alone,  that  every  Town  Hall  or  municipal  building 
knows  its  familiar  councillors  and  officials,  that  every 
square  with  its  library  or  polytechnic  is  a  vortex  of 
endeavour  which  I  know  nothing  about,  for  people  I 
have  never  met  and  shall  never  see.  How  strange  is 
the  fact  that  every  public-house  is  an  evening  Mecca 
to  its  habitues,  who  are  intimate  with  all  the  furniture, 
the  pictures  on  the  walls,  the  figures  on  the  mugs,  and 
that  in  every  public-house  it  is  the  same,  and  yet  that 
all  of  this  is  absolutely  nothing  to  me. 

I  dart  across  thoroughfares  and  rattle  down 
through  others— buildings  and  houses  everywhere,  in 
wery  building  people,  in  every  private  house  a  family 
circle,  and  \et  I  do  not  know  them,  and  I  do  not  seem 


INFINITIES  59 

to  care.  Millions  of  callous  persons  living  together  in 
the  same  great  city  and  not  speaking  to  one  another — 
persons  in  the  same  street,  nay,  in  the  same  house,  and 
not  speaking  !  How  I  hate  you  all !  For  you  are  too 
many  and  I  am  too  small.  I  gaze  down  on  you — you 
prodigious  quantities  of  tiny  men — emmets — passing 
swiftly  by  and  feel  sick  of  my  own  mortality  and 
finiteness.  I  should  like  to  be  a  god  methinks.  .  .  . 
To  love  merely  one's  own  children  or  one's  own 
parents,  how  ridiculous  that  seems,  how  puny,  how 
stifling !  To  be  interested  only  in  one's  own  life  or 
profession,  to  know  and  remain  satisfied  merely  with 
one's  own  circumscribed  experiences — how  contemp- 
tible !  It  is  necessary  to  be  unselfish — even  extrava- 
gantly selfless— quite  as  much  for  the  sake  of  one's 
intellect  and  understanding  as  for  the  good  of  one's 
heart  and  soul.  "  But  the  most  terrible  thing  of  all 
was  that  in  all  the  houses  there  lived  human  beings 
and  about  all  the  streets  were  moving  human  beings. 
There  was  a  multitude  of  them  and  all  unknown  to 
him — strangers  —  and  all  of  them  lived  their  own 
separate  life  hidden  from  the  eyes  of  others ;  they  were 
without  interruption,  being  born  and  dying,  and  there 
was  no  beginning  nor  end  to  the  stream.  ...  1  here 
was  a  stout  gentleman  at  whom  Petrov  glanced,  disap- 
pearing around  the  corner — and  never  would  Petrov 
see  him  again.  Even  if  he  wished  to  find  him  he 
would  search  for  him  all  his  life  and  never  succeed." — 


6o  INFINITIES 

From  Andreyev's  story,  "  The  City "  (whicli  I  read 
since  making  this  entry). 


I  think  I  should  love  Russians  if  I  knew  them.  I 
believe  I  have  most  in  conmion  with  the  Russian 
temperament.  How  else  explain  that  in  Russian 
books — in  Lermontov,  in  Turgenev,  in  Dostoievsky, 
in  Tchekov,  Poushkin,  Goncharov,  and  others — I  so 
frequently  End  almost  exact  transcripts  of  my  own 
life  and  character.  It  is  like  seeing  oneself  constantly 
in  a  portrait  gallery,  and  naturally  flatters  a  reader's 
vanity. 

March  /5M,  igi S- — All  this  morning  I  have  been 
floating  aimlessly  along  the  tideways  of  human  souls 
down  by  the  London  docks,  in  Commercial  Road, 
Whitechapel,  Fleet  Street,  eddying  round  Piccadilly 
Circus,  and  so  homewards  into  quiet  waters,  like  a 
battered  ship  into  port.  I  sought  a  little  rest  in  the 
afternoon  in  the  public  library  and  picked  up  the 
Bookman^  my  customary  fare.  Then  I  observed  for  a 
while  my  fellow-loungers  and  next,  casually  picked  up 
the  Ferjormer,  which  happened  to  lie  ready  to  hand. 

I  confess  it  interested  me,  and  induced  me  to  have  a 
look  at  several  other  periodicals  I  had  never  examined 
before.  I  read  in  succession  the  Gentlewoman,  the 
Grocer,  the  Builder,  the  Horological  Journal,  the 
Musical    Times,    the    Bird    Fancier,    the    Herald    of 


INFINITIES  61 

Health,  the  Bible.  Student.  What  began  as  a  whim 
now  developed  into  a  solemn  passion.  I  ransacked 
the  whole  room  for  the  various  professional  journals, 
trade  organs,  periodicals  devoted  to  special  move- 
ments, societies,  enthusiasms.  It  was  an  extraordinary 
experiment  to  make  in  that  dirty,  quiet  room  among 
those  few  dirty,  dejected,  sprawling  loafers  by  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  periodicals  to  conjure  up  and 
review  the  whole  of  contemporary  civilization.  I 
enjoyed  one  long  delicious  eavesdropping;  I  was  an 
invisible  man  moving  freely  about  unobserved  among 
my  fellow-creatures  and  listening  to  all  their  tattle. 
Each  journal  was  a  window  through  which  I,  outside 
in  the  dark,  could  gaze  in  at  brilliantly  lighted 
interiors  and  watch  all  that  was  going  on — it  was  a 
masque,  a  harlequinade,  every  performer  delightfully 
unconscious  of  curious  observation.  Through  the  cold 
print  of  a  paragraph,  behind  the  lines  of  some  stilted 
announcement  in  an  obituary  notice,  a  competition  or 
an  advertisement,  I  traversed  all  modern  society  in  a 
series  of  long  kangaroo  leaps.  It  is  easy  to  sit 
comfortably  at  a  table  of  periodicals  and,  like  an 
omnipotent  magician,  wand  in  hand,  call  up  at  will, 
Park  Lane  or  Whitechapel,  the  study  of  canaries  or 
the  Bible,  order  to  appear  in  succession  the  licensing 
trade,  all  Band  of  Hope  Unions,  the  Navy  League, 
the  theatrical  world.  You  can  call  up  for  personal 
interview  musicians,  grocers,  duchesses,  trichologists, 


62  INFINITIES 

princes,  pastry  cooks.  They  told  me  everything.  I 
searched  their  inmost  natures  and  with  perfect  in- 
genuousness they  surrendered  all.  It  was  pleasant  to 
feel  the  shock  of  transition  from,  say,  the  Gentle- 
woman to  the  Shop-assistant,  or  from  the  Free-thinker 
to  the  Bible-student.  It  made  my  sceptical  mind  a 
little  gleeful  to  note  how  many  pairs  of  antagonisms 
there  are:  the  Suffragette  and  the  Anti-Suffragette, 
the  vaccinators  and  the  anti-vaccinators,  Stephen 
Paget  and  Stephen  Coleridge,  the  Labour  Leader  and 
the  Saturday  Review.  I  felt  the  same  sardonic 
humour  as  a  cinema  film  provokes,  showing  you,  say, 
the  Houses  of  Parliament  with  a  "  fade-through  "  of 
Guy  Fawkes  in  the  cellars  underneath. 

In  the  Gentlewoman  I  read  an  article  entitled, 
"  What  Gentlewomen  are  doing  in  the  War."  In  the 
Shop-assistant  poor  Kipps  is  fighting  for  a  living 
wage  "  against  the  callous  indifference  of  the  upper 
classes  never  more  emphasized  than  at  the  present 
time."  The  Bird-fanciers  are  thinking  of  reviving  the 
Roller  fancy  in  the  Grimsby  district,  the  trichologists 
are  commenting  on  the  grave  dangers  to  health  arising 
from  neglected  scalps;  an  anxious  inquirer  in  the 
Bible-student  wants  to  know  if  "  Holy  Spirit "  means 
"  A  number  of  angels  "  and,  if  so,  how  explain  Matt. 
i.  20.  Mr.  J.  Tripp,  vice-president  of  the  Horological 
Institute,  has  been  indisposed,  and  his  condition  is 
causing  anxiety  to  fellow  horologists.    Musicians  call 


INFINITIES  63 

for  a  comic  opera  revival,  and  a  general  practitioner 
urges  treatment  for  fracture  by  mobilization. 

My  most  interesting  peep,  however,  was  at  the 
vegetarians  through  an  exceptionally  transparent 
window  called  The  Herald  of  Health,  devoted,  so  it 
informed  me,  to  the  "  Physical  Regeneration  of  Man- 
kind." Its  first  item  was  the  photograph  of  a  very 
cheerful  old  gentleman —  "  the  late  Mr.  William 
Harrison  showing  a  very  fine  brain  development  and 
philanthropic  characteristics  " — as  if  he  were  a  prize 
beast  at  a  fat  stock  show.  His  obituary  notice  was  so 
curious  that  I  copied  it  out  in  full.  Here,  however,  I 
give  only  a  few  extracts.  After  referring  to  Mr. 
Harrison's  "  indefatigable  and  self-sacrificing  labours 
on  behalf  of  the  vegetarian  propaganda  of  which  he 
was  a  pioneer,"  the  writer  proceeded  to  comment  upon 
the  significant  circumstance  that  Mr.  Harrison's  father 
was  a  butcher,  a  fact  which  may  have  played  no  unim- 
portant part  in  directing  his  attention  to  vegetables. 
"  Early  impressed  by  Bible  truths,  from  his  youth  up 
he  carried  as  his  constant  pocket  companions,  the  New 
Testament  and  Ben  Johnson's  Dictionary."  {Sic.) 
"In  conclusion  this  self-taught  Lancashire  man  over 
a  long  career  preached  and  practised,  taught  and 
demonstrated  undying  human  truths  and  scientific 
principles  which  99  per  cent,  of  the  costly  collegiates 
of  this  and  other  civilized  countries  do  not  know. 
Early  in  life  Mr.  Harrison  signed  Dr.  Smudge's  '  Long 


64  INFINITIES 

Pledge '  to  abstain  from  tobacco,  snuff-taking,  and 
alcohol.  Subsequently  it  was  his  pride  and  privilege 
to  add  to  the  '  Long  Pledge '  the  following  additional 
pledges  :  Never  to  be  a  butcher,  never  to  be  a  pawn- 
broker, never  to  sell  tobacco  or  snuff,  never  to  convert 
friendship  into  merchandise.  I  hope,"  comments 
the  writer,  "that  similar  men  will  arise  as  examples  of 
this  human,  health-giving,  life-saving  cult  and  that 
our  propaganda  will  spread  further  and  faster  to 
enlighten  and  bless  this,  our  rising,  war-stained, 
inoculated,  be-drugged,  deceived,  and  deluded  genera- 
tion, so  that  it  may  warn  by  the  fruits  of  its  experience 
a  new  and  coming  race." 

I  amused  myself  next  with  the  comparison  between 
this  and  the  Performer,  which  described  in  no  un- 
measured terms  the  feats  of  "  The  great  Jaskoe,"  the 
most  daring  hand  and  foot  balancer  in  the  world,  of 
the  celebrated  Elsie  Finney,  now  considering  engage- 
ments for  revues,  water  productions,  and  swimming 
displays,  and  of  a  hundred  other  famous  men  and 
women.  Jack  Straw  claims,  "  I  run  the  gamut  from 
laughter  to  tears.  I  speak  the  King's  English.  I  get 
laughter  cleanly.  The  audience  quote  me  long  after  I 
have  left  your  town."  Mexico's  most  beautiful 
siffleur  says,  "  I  will  make  your  town  talk.  Don't  miss 
this.  Book  right  now.  Can  work  any  stage.  Have 
featured  every  hall  including  the  London  Coliseum." 

After  attentively  reading  the  short  accounts  of  the 


INFINITIES  65 

current  transactions  of  all  the  learned  societies,  pub- 
lished regularly  in  the  AthencBum,  with  a  mind  a 
perfect  jutnble  of  "Half-crowns  of  Charles  I."  (ex- 
hibited by  the  numismatists),  of  the  "  integrals  of  a 
certain  Riccati  equation  connected  with  Halphen's 
transformation  "  (which  have  been  charming  mathe- 
maticians), of  an  ivory  comb  of  the  eleventh  century 
sent  by  Pope  Gregory  to  Bertha,  Queen  of  Kent  (and 
now  exhibited  by  Sir  Hercules  Reed  to  the  Anti- 
quaries), I  picked  up  a  halfpenny  evening  newspaper, 
seeking  relief.  But  I  was  cursed  with  the  mood,  and 
at  once  proceeded  to  observe  cynically  what  "  went  to 
the  post,"  and  "whether  the  filly  stayed  well."  It 
made  me  feel  deliciously  satirical  to  read  in  another 
column  that  amateur  gardeners  must  "  at  once  arrange 
for  the  imminent  planting  of  spring  bedders."  And 
here  in  a  little  backvvater,  out  of  the  way  of  the  catar- 
act, in  a  corner  devoted  to  the  Home,  advice  to 
knitters  :  "  Purl  one,  plain  one."  In  many  respects  it 
seems  to  be  beneath  God's  dignity  to  be  omniscient. 


I  staggered  out  into  the  open  air  in  time  to  see  a 
very  fine  sunset.  I  was  sick  of  the  infinity  of  separate 
Things  and  just  wanted  to  be  Man  looking  at  the 
Sunset.  It  was  a  distinct  relief  to  my  congested  brain 
to  observe  the  one  Sun  simply — that  at  least  seemed 
an  immense  and  irreducible  Unity. 

5 


66  INFINITIES 

April  loth,  igiS-' 

"  O  Seigneur  donnez-moi  la  force  cl  la  courage 
De  contemplcr  mon  corps  ct  mon  cceur  sans  degout.'" 

Could  anything  be  more  ridiculous  than  our  means 
of  progression — I  implore  you  to  watch  the  two  legs, 
calliper-like,  measuring  out  the  ground  so  slow  and 
infinitely  laborious.  My  self-esteem  requires  at  least 
a  pair  of  wings  or  even  a  pair  of  smooth-running 
automatic  wheels.  As  for  sitting  down,  that  seems 
indecent — particularly  according  to  the  method  of 
certain  old  gentlemen  who  with  great  deliberation 
catch  up  their  coat  tails  and  carefully  deposit  the 
gluteal  mass  into  some  close  fitting  armchair. 

But  why  do  I  trouble  to  write  when  to  hold  this 
pen  is  so  irksome — a  single  pen  in  a  single  hand 
tracing  each  single  letter  of  every  single  word,  all  so 
slow,  so  laborious,  so  painfully  human.  I  want  all  the 
pens  that  ever  poets  held.  I  would  be  Hydra-headed 
and  Argus-eyed,  I  desire  to  possess  as  many  hands  as 
Briareus,  to  be  multiple,  legion,  a  Kosmos.  I  desire  to 
wave  a  wand,  and  then  at  the  crash  of  drums  and 
cymbals  to  have  everything  achieved.  What  a  simple 
man  he  must  be  who  takes  pride  in  his  own  work,  in 
that  inconsiderable  contribution  to  the  world's  output, 
even  after  a  life  of  toil.  How  commonly  a  man  who 
can  do  one  thing  well  goes  on  doing  it  again  and 
again  as  unrcflectively  as  Old  Father  William,  or  a 


INFINITIES  67 

squirrel  in  a  wheel.  There  seems  to  me  no  satisfaction 
in  achieving  those  things  of  which  we  know  we  are 
already  capable.  If  I  had  written  the  ^neid  there 
would  still  be  the  Iliad.  .  .  . 

April  nth,  jgiS- — To  live  is  a  continuous  humilia- 
tion. Man  was  born  with  the  desire  to  be  free,  yet 
everywhere  he  is  in  the  hopeless  shackles  of  mortality 
and  of  iron  natural  law.  If  Lucifer  was  proud,  he  was 
not  so  proud  as  I  :  it  wounds  my  self-esteem  not  to  be 
able  to  perform  miracles,  to  move  mountains,  to  play 
fast  and  loose  with  base  clay,  to  be  in  direct  telepathic 
rapport  with  the  universe  and  its  beauty.  No  one 
more  than  I  could  be  readier  to  listen  eagerly  and 
encouragingly  to  the  claims  of  Spiritualists  and 
Christian  Scientists.  These  claims  do  not  surprise  me. 
What  does  surprise  me  is  that,  as  touching  miracles, 
the  evidence  still  seems  to  be  on  the  side  of  David 
Hume.  I  ask  myself,  "What  is  the  secret  of  the 
universe  ?"  and  I  am  staggered  to  find  that  I  do  not 
know.  What  an  amazing  thing  it  is  that  no  one 
knows.  "Avid  of  all  dominion  and  all  mightiness," I 
yet  is  man  "  successive  unto  nothing  but  patrimony  of 
a  little  mould  and  entail  of  four  planks."  That 
bumble-bee  in  the  fox-glove  yonder — how  can  I  be 
about  my  human  business  until  I  know  ?  Who  is 
going  to  be  busied  over  anything  at  all  so  long  as 
overhead  the  sun  shines  unmolested  and  underneath 


68  INFINITIES 

his  feet,  secure  in  mystery,  grows  a  single  blade  of 
grass  ?  To  be  alive  is  so  incredible  that  I  can  no  more 
than  lie  still  on  my  back  between  the  immense  vertical 
heights  of  my  ignorance  like  a  newborn  babe  sunk  in 
the  grand  canon  of  Colorado.  In  the  embrace  of  this 
mother  Sphinx  the  earth,  my  own  individuality 
shrinks  to  vanishing-point,  I  see  myself  through  tlie 
wrong  end  of  a  telescope — a  tiny  speck  crawling  on  a 
great  hill. 

"  When  I  consider  the  short  duration  of  my  life, 
swallowed  up  in  the  eternity  before  and  after,  the  little 
space  which  I  fill,  and  even  can  see,  engulfed  in  the 
infinite  immensity  of  spaces  of  which  I  am  ignorant, 
and  which  know  me  not,  I  am  frightened,  and  am 
astonished  at  being  here  rather  than  there,  why  now 
rather  than  then.  Who  has  put  me  here  ?  By  whose 
order  and  direction  have  this  place  and  time  been 
allotted  to  me  ?"  (Pascal.) 

April  26th,  191 S- — In  the  spirit  of  pious  resignation 
Thomas  a  Kempis  wrote  :  "  Meddle  not  with  things 
that  be  too  high  for  thee,  but  study  such  things  as 
yield  compunction  to  the  heart  rather  than  elevation 
to  the  head."  I  like  to  put  alongside  this  the  delight- 
ful passage  from  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  "Religio": 
"  I  love  to  lose  myself  in  a  mystery,  to  pursue  my 
reason  to  an  0  alUtudnl  'Tis  my  solitary  recreation 
to  pose  my  apprehension  with  those  involved  enigmas 


INFINITIES  69 

and  riddles  of  the  Trinity,  Incarnation,  and  Resurrec- 
tion."   Recreation  is  great ! 

Like  Sir  Thomas  Browne  I  have  always  meddled 
with  things  that  are  too  high  for  me,  not,  certainly, 
as  a  recreation,  but  as  a  result  of  intense  intellectual 
discomfort.  I  find  a  sulky  delight  in  pulverizing  the 
intellect  by  thinking  on  the  time  for  example  it  takes 
for  light  to  travel  from  the  sun  to  the  earth,  upon  the 
number  of  stars  in  the  Milky  Way,  upon  the  infinite 
divisibility  of  matter,  upon  Sir  Oliver  Lodge's 
dictum  that  there  are  more  atoms  in  a  thimible-full  of 
water  than  there  are  thimble-fulls  of  water  in  the 
Atlantic  Ocean.  When  a  geologist  speaks  of  the 
Cambrian,  I  want  to  cross  myself;  when  great 
formulas  like  "  intrastellar  space  "  or  "  secular  time  " 
thunder  in  my  ears,  I  want  to  crawl  away  like  a  rat 
into  a  hole  and  die. 

I  have  always  meddled  v/ith  things  that  are  too 
high  for  me,  my  first  adventure  being  Berkeley  at  the 
age  of  fifteen,  a  philosopher  who  captured  my  amaze- 
ment over  a  period  of  many  months.  Like  a  little 
London  gamin,  I  run  about  the  great  city  of  the  mind 
and  hang  on  behind  the  big  motor  lorries  of  thought. 
"  Looked  at  from  the  point  of  view  of  multiplicity, 
duration  disintegrates  into  a  powder  of  moments,  none 
of  which  endures,  each  being  an  instantaneity."  No 
matter  if  I  do  not  understand  Bergson :  in  a  sentence 
like  that  I  catch  at  least  the  rumour  of  some  tremen- 


70  INFINITIES 

dous  thought.  Again  under  the  heading  "  Wall 
Street":  "Some  securities  showed  the  effects  of  dis- 
tribution under  cover  of  an  advance  in  volatile  issues." 
It  is  like  putting  one's  ear  to  a  telegraph  pole  on  top 
of  a  wind-swept  heath.  .  .  .  Then  there  is  William 
James  and  Schiller,  Pragmatism  and  Humanism,  those 
other  grand  feut-itres. 

*  •  •  *  • 

It  may  be  that  ultimately  all  speculation  and  belief 
will  become  extinguished  by  one  universal  certainty. 
Man's  mind  that  animates  this  globe  may  continue  to 
ripen  and  develop  into  complete  knowledge  able  to 
wing  its  way  throughout  the  universe.  Mental  tele- 
pathy will  dispense  with  our  present  clumsy  means  of 
intercourse ;  the  Spiritualists  perhaps,  will  investigate 
the  next  world  as  exactly  as  the  scientific  men  will 
have  done  this;  all  disease  be  vanquished  and  all 
perfection  attained  by  easy  miracles  {vide  the  Chris- 
tian Scientists),  and  even  God  Himself  a  familiar 
figure  walking  abroad  upon  the  earth,  the  well-pleased 
captain  of  the  planet.  In  other  words,  a  cosmic  enter- 
prise brought  to  a  thoroughly  successful  conclusion  by 
the  triumph  of  infinite  mind  over  matter. 

February  20th,  igij. — Here  is  a  passage  I  have  just 
hit  upon.  It  is  an  0  altitudo  that  would  have  pleased 
old  Browne  :  "  For  ever,  for  all  eternity.  .  .  .  Try  to 
imagine  the  awful  meaning  of  this.     You  have  often 


INFINITIES  71 

seen  the  sand  on  the  seashore.  .  .  .  How  many  of 
those  tiny  grains  go  to  make  up  the  small  handful 
which  a  child  grasps  in  its  play.  Now  imagine  a 
mountain  of  that  sand,  a  million  miles  high,  .  .  .  and 
a  million  miles  broad  .  .  .  and  a  million  miles  in 
thickness ;  and  imagine  such  an  enormous  mass  of 
countless  particles  of  sand  multiplied  as  often  as  there 
are  leaves  in  the  forest,  drops  of  water  in  the  mighty 
ocean,  feathers  on  birds,  scales  on  fish,  hairs  on 
animals,  atoms  in  the  vast  expanse  of  air :  and 
imagine  that  at  the  end  of  every  million  years  a  little 
bird  came  to  that  mountain  and  carried  away  in  its 
beak  a  tiny  grain  of  that  sand.  How  many  millions 
upon  millions  of  centuries  would  pass  before  that  bird 
had  carried  away  even  a  square  foot  of  that  mountain  ; 
how  many  asons  upon  aeons  of  ages  before  it  had 
carried  away  all.  Yet  at  the  end  of  that  immense 
stretch  of  time  not  even  one  instant  of  eternity  can  be 
said  to  have  ended.  At  the  end  of  all  those  billions 
and  trillions  of  years  eternity  would  have  scarcely 
begun.  And  if  that  mountain  rose  again  after  it  had 
all  been  carried  away,  and  if  the  bird  came  agam  and 
carried  it  all  away  again,  grain  by  grain ;  and  if  it  so 
rose  and  sank  as  many  times  as  there  are  stars  in  the 
sky,  atoms  in  the  air,  drops  of  water  in  the  sea,  leaves 
on  the  trees,  feathers  upon  birds,  scales  upon  &sh, 
hairs  upon  animals,  at  the  end  of  all  those  innumerable 
risings  and  sinkings,  not  one  single  instant  of  eternity 


n  INFINITIES 

could  be  said  to  have  ended;  even  then  at  the  end  of 
such  a  period,  after  that  aeon  of  time,  the  mere  thought 
of  which  makes  our  very  brain  reel  dizzily,  eternity 
would  scarcely  have  begun."  fFrom  a  sermon  on 
eternal  damnation  by  a  Jesuit  father,  in  James  Joyce's 
"  Portrait  of  the  Artist  as  a  Young  Man.") 


ESSAYS 


ON  JOURNAL  WRITERS 

A  JOURNAL  is  an  incondite  miscellany,  written  from 
day  to  day,  recording  the  writer's  life  and  addressed 
either  to  some  particular  person  as  in  Swift's  Journal 
to  Stella,  or  as  m  Eugenie  de  Gu6rin's  Journal 
inscribed  if  not  directly  addressed  to  her  beloved 
brother  Maurice  or  else  implicitly  or  explicitly 
dedicated  to  some  abstraction  or  ideal  confidant — in 
Fanny  Burney's  diary  explicitly  to  "  Nobody,"  in 
Maurice  de  Guerin's  Journal  to  "  Mon  Cahier,"  in 
others  to  the  "  Reader,"  to  "  Posterity,"  "  Kind 
Friend,"  and  so  forth. 

The  devotee  in  this  "  petite  chapelle  "  of  literature 
should  beware  of  shams  :  drunken  Barnabee's  Journal 
— that  curious  and  scandalous  book  published  in  1638 
— is  rhymed  Latin  verse  (accompanied  by  an  English 
verse  translation)  describing  the  author's  "  pub  crawl- 
ings  "  up  and  down  the  country ;  Defoe's  Journal  of 
the  Plague  Year  is  certainly  an  incondite  miscellany, 
but  not  written  from  day  to  day,  and  not  even  broken 
up  into  chapters;  Turgenev's  "  Diary  of  a  Superfluous 
Man  "  is  a  short  story  in  diary  form. 

In  all  their  infinite  variety,  real  journals  possess 
75 


76  ON  JOURNAL  WRITERS 

lliis  much  in  common  :  they  are  one  and  all  an  irre- 
sistible overflow  of  the  writer's  life,  whether  it  be  a  life 
of  adventure,  or  a  life  of  thought,  or  a  life  of  the  soul. 
To  be  sure,  if  a  man  be  sailing  the  Amazon,  climbing 
Chimborazo,  or  travelling  to  the  South  Pole,  it  is  most 
obvious  and  natural  for  him  to  keep  a  diary.  Hence 
we  have  Darwin's  Journal  of  the  Voyage  of  the 
Beagle  and  Captain  Scott's  Diary  of  his  immortal 
expedi'tion.  He  would  mdced  be  dull  of  soul  who,  on 
encountering  strange  or  unprecedented  experiences 
felt  no  desire  to  write  them  down.  Meeting  with  great 
events  or  great  personages  startle  even  the  inarticulate 
into  eloquent  speech,  and  the  innumerable  journals, 
written  by  soldiers  and  others,  and  sometimes  pub- 
lished, especially  in  France*  during  the  Great  War, 
show  how  the  lingers  of  the  most  unlikely  persons  do 
tingle  for  a  pen  to  describe  each  day  all  they  see  and 
do  and  suffer.  It  is  interesting  to  observe  in  passing 
that  a  similar  crop  of  journals  appeared  one  hundred 
years  ago  round  about  the  time  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion :  those  of  Madame  de  Stiiel's  circle — Benjamm 
Constant's  and  Sismondi's,  for  example,  in  France, 
and  in  England  the  journals  of  Lady  Holland,  Crabb 
Robinson,  Madam  D'Arblay.  Many  of  these,  how- 
ever,  were   habitual   journal   writers,  who   had   been 

*  See  for  example  the  Diary  of  a  Dead  Officer,  by  Arthur 
Graeme  West :  the  Diary  of  a  French  Private  :  War  Imprison- 
ment, by  Gaston  Riou — the  author,  however,  being  a  journahst 
with  marked  Hterary  gifts. — Ed. 


ON  JOURNAL  WRITERS  7; 

already  posting  up  their  diaries  before  the  storm 
broke,  producing  in  no  sense  joiirnaux  par  occasion  as 
all  war  diaries  are  and  almost  all  itineraries.  Gray's 
Journal  of  his  Lakeland  Tour,  and  Boswell's  Journal 
of  a  trip  to  the  Hebrides  are  two  famous  literary 
journals  of  travel  that  readily  occur  to  the  mind. 

The  instinct  of  the  true  journal-writer  is  more 
profound.  To  every  man  his  own  life  is  of  great 
interest.  But  to  all  inveterate  self-chroniclers  of  what-/ 
ever  rank,  in  whatever  situation  or  condition  of  life, 
their  own  existence  seems  so  insistently  marvellous 
that  at  the  close  of  each  day,  being  incontinent,  they 
must  needs  pour  out  their  sense  of  wonder  into  a 
manuscript  book.  Let  him  be  only  a  clerk  with 
spectacles  and  eternally  pushing  the  pen,  yet  his 
journal  shall  reveal  with  what  rare  gusto  he  pursues 
his  clerical  existence.  Though  he  rarely  quits  his 
office,  life  for  him  is  full  of  delightful  hazards  and 
surprises.  He  will  ride  his  high  stool  as  if  astride  a 
caracoling  Arab,  and  at  night,  having  arrived  steam- 
ing at  the  Inn — even  though  it  be  but  a  bed-sitting 
room  over  a  tallow-chandler's  shop — writes  out  with 
an  unwearying  pen  the  history  of  each  day's  adven- 
tures, thus  :  "  Lunched  with  Brown.  Later  played  a 
game  of  '  pills '  with  old  Bumpus  and  to-night  went 
to  see  A  Little  Bit  of  Fhiff" 

But  Mr.  Secretary  Pepys  is,  of  course,  our  great 
exemplar.      "  Old    Peepy,"    as    Edward    FitzGerald 


78  ON  JOURNAL  WRITERS 

called  him,  was  "  with  child  "  to  see  every  new  thing, 
and  everything  was  "  pretty  to  see."  The  most 
commonplace  affairs  had  a  significance,  while  a  real 
event  became  portentous.  He  rolled  each  day  upon 
his  tongue  with  the  relish  of  an  epicure,  and  scarce  a 
day  passed  but  his  Magpie's  covetous  eye  caught 
some  bright  and  novel  object  for  conveyance  to  that 
w^ondcrful  larder — the  Diary.  It  is  amusing  to  con- 
struct an  imaginary  picture  of  him — with  all  serious- 
ness and  heads  bent  together  over  the  book — 
participating  in  the  perplexity  of  that  otlier  wonderful 
child,  Marjorie  Fleming,  who  affirmed  in  her  diary  of 
confessions  that  "  the  most  devilish  thing  is  8 
times  8,  and  j  times  7  is  what  nature  itself  can't 
endure." 

With  Marie  Bashkirtseff,  it  was  something  more 
than  a  gusto  for  life.  Life  was  a  passion  and  a  fever 
that  presently  overwhelmed  her.  "  When  I  think  of 
what  I  shall  be  when  I  am  twenty,"  she  wrote  as  a 
child  after  looking  long  in  the  mirror,  "  I  smack  my 
lips  !"  And  later,  when  Fate,  like  a  ring  of  steel,  was 
slowly  closing  in  on  her :  "  I  don't  curse  life ;  on  the 
contrary,  I  find  it  all  good — would  you  believe  it,  I 
find  it  all  good,  even  my  tears  and  suffering.  I  like 
to  cry,  I  like  to  be  in  despair,  I  like  to  be  sad  and 
miserable,  and  I  love  life  in  spite  of  all."  Even  the 
languorous  Amiel  in  the  course  of  his  amazing  pages 
here  and  there  bubbles  up  into  an  ecstasy — and  Amiel 


ON  JOURNAL  WRITERS  79 

was  a  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy,  and  a  dull  one 
at  that. 

In  the  course  of  every  diary  will  be  found  entries 
testifying  to  the  author's  pleasure  in  re-reading  his 
past.  This  is  a  curiously  constant  feature — see,  e.g., 
Tolstoi's  Diary,  March  20th,  1852.  The  diarist  is  a 
sentimentalist  in  love  with  his  past,  however  painful 
or  unprofitable  it  may  have  been.  Better  than  any 
man  he  knows  how  that  silent  artist,  the  memory, 
working  in  the  depths,  ceaselessly  fashions  our  per- 
haps dreary  or  commonplace  existence,  until  the  sea 
one  day  casts  up  its  beautiful  shells,  and  we  are 
delighted  and  surprised  to  find  our  lives  have  been  so 
beautiful.  Of  Pepys,  Stevenson  remarked  that  neither 
Hazlitt  nor  Rousseau  had  a  more  romantic  passion 
for  their  past — "  it  clung  about  his  heart  like  an  ever- 
green." So,  in  dressing  gown  and  slippers,  before  the 
night  fire,  your  sentimentalist  with  finger  in  the  book, 
like  a  genie,  conjures  up  the  days  gone  by.  He  and 
his  past  keep  house  together;  it  is  an  almost  tangible 
Presence  with  every  feature  of  which  he  is  familiar — 
indeed,  is  it  not  a  row  of  precious  volumes  on  a  shelf, 
and  an  article  of  furniture  in  his  room  ?  Of  an 
evening,  poignant  memories  pull  at  the  strings  of  his 
heart  and  ring  the  bells,  and  the  whole  room  is  vibrant. 
Let  us  not  intrude  further  for  very  decency's  sake. 


8o  ON  JOURNAL  WRITERS 

"  I  have  left  this  book  locked  up  for  the  past  fort- 
night," writes  Eugenie  de  Guerin.  "  How  many  things 
in  this  gap  that  will  be  recorded  nowhere,  not  even 
here!"  And  Fanny  Burncy  :  "There  seems  to  me 
something  very  unsatisfactory  in  passing  year  after 
year  without  even  a  memorandum  of  what  you  did, 
etc."  To  the  ego-loving  diarist,  to  take  no  note  of  the 
flight  of  the  present  and  to  forget  the  past  seems  like 
a  personal  disloyalty  to  himself :  it  is  an  infamous 
defection  to  forget  or  neglect  that  ever-increasing 
collection  of  past  selves — those  dear  dead  gentlemen 
who  one  after  another  have  tenanted  the  temple  of  this 
flesh  and  handed  on  the  torch.  His  journal  of  self- 
chroniclings  he  regards  as  a  mausoleum,  where  with 
reverent  hands  he  year  by  year  embalms  the  long 
dynasty  of  his  person  as  it  descends.  To  which  end 
he  is  for  ever  harvesting  his  consciousness,  anxious  to 
conserve  every  moment  of  his  existence,  every  relic  of 
his  passage  through  the  world.  He  counts  every  kiss 
and  every  heart-beat,  he  collects  all  the  hours  of  his 
life  and  hoards  them  up  with  a  miserly  hand  and  a 
connoisseur's  taste.  You  shall  find  his  walls  hung  with 
mementos,  and  his  escritoire  packed  with  old  letters — 
and  probably  each  annual  volume  of  his  journal  bound 
in  leather  and  stored  in  a  fire-proof  safe.  The  diarist 
is  a  great  conservator.  As  Samuel  Butler  (of 
"  Erewhon  ")  said  :  "  One's  thoughts  "  (and  he  might 
have  added — one's  days)  "  fly  so  fast  it's  no  use  trying 


ON  JOURNAL  WRITERS  8i 

to  put  salt  on  their  tails."  Hence  came  Butler's  Note- 
book, and  the  journals  of  such  reflective  writers  as 
Emerson  and  Thoreau,  and  of  such  methodically- 
minded  men  as  Evelyn  and  John  Wesley. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Mr.  Julius  West  has  given  a  lively  picture  of  the 
De  Goncourts  moving  in  literary  France  of  the  last 
century,  "  always  with  notebook  in  hand,  at  any  rate 
metaphorically,  anxious  not  to  allow  a  single  trait  to 
escape  them — ever  on  the  alert,  if  not  anxious  to 
botanize  on  their  mother's  grave,  at  any  rate  perfectly 
willing  to  fasten  upon  the  confidences  of  the  living  as 
well  as  of  the  dead,  to  capture  the  flying  word,  to  take 
the  evidences  of  the  unforgiving  minute," — with  what 
results  all  readers  of  their  colossal  Journal  know. 

It  is  indeed  astonishing  what  a  hold  the  diary  habit 
gains  on  a  man.  Even  as  an  event  or  conversation  is 
taking  place  he  will  have  it  mentally  trimmed  and 
prepared  for  its  exact  position  in  the  daily  record,  or 
his  observations  arranged  in  a  mnemonic  list  lest  they 
escape  his  recollection  against  the  evening.  Life 
becomes  an  accessory  to  the  journal,  instead  of  vice 
versa  —  just  so  much  raw  material  to  be  caught, 
polished,  and  preserved.  The  consciousness  of  the 
habitual  diarist  develops  a  chronic  irritability  and 
instantly  flicks  off  into  his  MS.  book  every  tiniest 
impression,  just  as  a  horse  shivers  off  the  flies  by 
means  of  that  extensive  muscle  underneath  the  skin 

6 


82  ON  JOURNAL  WRITERS 

which  anatomists  have  named  the  panniculus  carnosus. 
"  Congreve's  nasty  wine  has  given  me  the  heartburn," 
Swift  records  in  that  extraordinary  fantasia  of  tender- 
ness and  politics — the  Journal  to  Stella.  Then  there 
was  Patrick's  bird  intended  for  Madam  Dinglibus, 
Mrs.  Walls  of  immortal  memory,  Goody  Stoyte  and 
all  the  gossip.  The  merest  bagatelle  was  worth  its 
record.  Eugenie  de  Guerin  owned  with  what  delight 
she  described  the  smallest  trifles,  such  as  the  little 
book  lice  she  observed  crawling  in  the  leaves  of  a 
volume  or  on  her  writing-table.  "  I  do  not  know  their 
names,"  she  tells  us,  "  but  we  are  acquaintances.  .  .  ." 
One  would  say  that  it  was  a  real  pain  to  her  to  see  any 
of  her  precious  experiences  slip  out  of  the  net  for  ever 
like  beautiful  scaly  fish.  "...  to  describe  the 
incidents  of  one  hour "  (she  is  voicing  the  despair 
expressed  by  so  many  journal  writers)  "  would  require 
an  eternity." 

«  «  *  *  • 

Journal  writing  where  it  is  chiefly  the  impulse  for 
self-expression  or  self-revelation  is  not  infrequently 
fostered  by  uncongenial  or  unsympathetic  surround- 
ings or  by  incurable  misfortune.  So  beset,  the  diarist, 
timid  and  eager  as  a  child,  flees  into  the  tower  of  his 
own  soul,  and  raises  the  drawbridge,  as  Francis 
Thompson  said  of  the  young  Shelley. 

For  a  journal  can  be  used  as  a  "  grief -cheating 
device,  a  mode  of  escape  and  withdrawal."    It  is  like 


ON  JOURNAL  WRITERS  83 

the  brown  eyes  of  some  faithful  hound  who  bears  and 
suffers  all  and  yet  regards  his  master  as  supreme.  It 
is  a  perpetual  flattery,  an  inexhaustible  cruse  of  oil  for 
the  sore  and  sometimes  swollen  ego.  To  keep  a  diary 
is  to  make  a  secret  liaison  of  the  firmest  and  most 
sentimental  kind ;  the  writer  can  fling  off  all  restraint 
and  all  the  trappings  which  are  necessarily  worn  to 
front  the  antagonism  of  the  world.  It  is  a  monstrous 
self-indulgence  wherein  he  remembers  his  friends  and 
he  remembers  his  enemies  —  with  candour ;  he 
remembers  his  own  griefs  and  grievances;  screened 
from  the  public  view  in  the  security  of  his  own  room 
he  can — and  it  must  be  confessed  he  occasionally  does 
— gaze  at  himself  as  before  a  mirror,  remembering, 
Malvolio-like,  who  praised  his  yellow  garters. 

The  famous  Journal  Intime  which  ran  to  17,000 
folio  pages  of  AIS.  and  consumed  countless  hours  of 
its  author's  life,  was  written  by  a  man  who  realized 
that  he  had  been  "  systematically  and  deliberately 
isolated  " — '"  premature  despair  and  deepest  discour- 
agement have  been  my  constant  portion."  Marie 
Bashkirtseff  also  was  driven  into,  the  subterranean 
existence  of  journal  writer  by  the  hard  facts  of  her 
short  life,  towards  the  end  of  it,  living  more  and  more 
within  its  pages  and  thus,  in  the  end,  wringing  out  of 
a  stubborn  destiny  her  indefeasible  claims  to  recogni- 
tion. "  I  do  not  know^  why  writing  has  become  a 
necessity  to  me,"  muses  the  tragic  sister  of  Maurice  de 


84  ON  JOURNAL  WRITERS 

Gu6rin — himself    a    tragedy    and    a    journal    writer. 
"  W  ho  understands  this  overflowing  of  my  soul,  this 
need  to  reveal  itself  before  God,  before  someone  ?" 
»  »  «  «  * 

In  reading  subjectively  written  diaries  one  con- 
stantly comes  across  the  expression  of  this  same  desire 
for  self-revelation  and  self-surrender.  Incredible  as  it 
appears  to  the  ordinary  secretive  human  being,  this 
very  common  kind  of  diarist  longs  to  give  himself 
away,  to  communicate  himself  to  some  other  person 
i7t  to  to;  with  pathetic  gesture  the  passionate  creature 
offers  himself  up  for  scrutiny,  sick  of  his  own  secret 
self,  anxious  to  be  swallowed  up  in  somebody  else's 
total  comprehension. 

"  On  dit,"  wrote  Maurice  de  Guerin  under  date 
March  23rd,  1834,  "  qu'au  jugement  dernier  le  secret 
des  consciences  sera  revel6  a  tout  I'univers :  je 
voudrais  qu'il  en  fut  ainsi  de  moi  des  aujourd'hui  et 
que  la  vue  de  mon  ame  fut  ouverte  a  tous  venants." 

Such  journals  are  in  nowise  comparable  with  the 
confessions  of  religious  journals — among  saintly 
women  always  a  favourite  mode  of  unburdening  them- 
selves— pale  crepuscular  souls  fluttering  through  pages 
of  self-disparagement  by  the  aid  of  the  lamp  and  a 
copious  inkhorn,  never  intended  for  the  public  view. 
"  Whenever  the  last  trumpet  shall  sound,  I  will  present 
myself  before  the  sovereign  Judge  with  this  book  in 
my  hand  and  loudly  proclaim,  '  Thus  have  I  acted. 


ON  JOURNAL  WRITERS  85 

these  were  my  thoughts,  such  was  I.' "  This  memor- 
able opening  to  Rousseau's  Confessions,  which  shocked 
John  Morley  for  its  "dreadful  exaltation,"  is  the 
typical  brag  in  most  journals  of  Confession.  With 
defiant  pride  of  personality,  Marie  Bashkirtseff,  in 
her  marvellous  volume  of  self-portraiture,  constantly 
emphasizes  for  her  readers  that  she  conceals  nothing  : 
"  I  not  only  say  all  the  time  what  I  think,  but  I  never 
contemplate  hiding  for  an  instant  what  might  make 
me  appear  ridiculous  or  prove  to  my  disadvantage. 
For  the  rest  I  think  myself  too  admirable  for  censure." 

Passionate  egotism  knows  no  shame.  Everything 
— however  scandalous — goes  down  in  a  self-revelation, 
beside  which  the  little  disclosures  of  essayists  like 
Montaigne,  Lamb,  De  Quincey  sink  to  the  level  of  dull 
propriety.  Voltaire  said  of  Rousseau  that  he 
wouldn't  mind  being  hanged  if  they  stuck  his  name  on 
the  gibbet.  I  suppose  to  the  average  man  Raskolnikoff 
in  "  Crime  and  Punishment,"  moving  to  his  confession 
with  the  inevitableness  almost  of  an  animal  tropism, 
is  easier  to  understand  than,  say,  Strindberg,  the 
author  of  that  terrible  book,  "The  Confessions  of  a 
Fool,"  or  even  Pepys,  whose  diary  of  peccadilloes  and 
little  vanities  was  certainly  written  down  in  cypher, 
but  only  to  conceal  them  from  his  wife. 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  introspective  diarist  is  almost  a  type  by  himself, 
distinguished  by  his  psychological  insight  and  cold 


86  ON  JOURNAL  WRITERS 

scientific  analysis  of  himself.  Of  these  Amiel  stands 
easily  at  the  head.  "  For  a  psychologist,"  he  writes  in 
thr  Journal  Intime,  "  it  is  extremely  interesting  to  be 
readily  and  directly  conscious  of  the  complications  of 
one's  own  organism  and  the  play  of  its  several  parts. 
...  A  feeling  like  this  makes  personal  existence  a 
perpetual  astonishment  and  curiosity.  Instead  of 
only  seeing  the  world  around  me,  I  analyze  myself. 
Instead  of  being  single,  all  of  a  piece,  I  become  legion, 
multitude,  a  whirlwind — a  very  cosmos."  Amiel's  self- 
consciousness  was  an  enormous  lens  and,  like  other 
microscopists,  he  found  worlds  within  worlds,  and  as 
much  complexity  and  finish  in  small  as  in  great. 

The  passion  of  the  introspecter  is  for  truth  of  self. 
He  should  be  full  of  curiosity  about  himself  and  quiet 
self-raillery,  delighting  to  trip  himself  up  in  some  little 
vanity,  to  track  down  some  carefully  secreted  motive, 
to  quizz  and  watch  himself  live  with  horrible  vigilance 
and  complete  self-detachment.  He  must  be  his  own 
detective  and  footpad,  his  own  eavesdropper  and  his 
own  stupid  Boswell.  His  books  should  be  La 
Rochefoucauld  and  La  Bruyere,  and  one  of  his 
favourite  occupations  to  measure  himself  alongside 
other  men.  Marie  Bashkirtseff  thought  she  was  like 
Jules  Valles,  of  whom  she  had  read  in  Zola.  "  But," 
she  adds  the  next  instant,  "  we  look  so  stupid  when  we 
appraise  ourselves  like  that."  It  was  the  same  agile 
self-consciousness    which    discovered    to    her    while 


ON  JOURNAL  WRITERS  8; 

weeping  before  a  mirror  the  right  expression  for  her 
Magdalen,  who  should  look  "  not  at  the  sepulchre  but 
at  nothing  at  all."  Amiel,  too,  gathered  hints  for  self- 
elucidation,  especially  in  the  eternal  self-chroniclings 
of  Maine  de  Biran,  in  whose  diary  he  thought  to  see 
himself  reflected,  though  he  also  found  differences 
which  cheered  and  consoled  him. 

*  ♦  *  *  • 

Yet  this  way  madness  lies.  For  too  complete  a 
divorce  from  self  provokes  self-antipathy,  too  great  a 
preoccupation  with  self  leads  to  self-sickness  and  by 
the  strangest  paradox  egotism  to  self-annihilation. 


THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION* 

Just  as  the  ancient  hunter  shot  a  fish  with  a  spear, 
so  we  may  imagine  the  ancient  philosopher  separated 
the  Thing,  caught  it  up  out  of  the  Heracleitean  flux 
and  transfixed  it  with  a  name.  With  this  first  great  pre- 
serv^ative  came  the  first  great  museum  of  language  and 
logical  thought.  Ever  since,  we  have  been  feverishly 
busy  collecting,  recording,  and  preserving  the  universe, 
or  as  much  of  it  as  is  accessible.  Perpetuation  has 
become  an  all-absorbing  passion. 

It  is  only  recently  that  certain  interesting,  not  to 
say  remarkable,  refinements  in  the  technique  of  the 
art  have  been  developed  and  come  into  common  use, 
such  being,  for  example,  the  museum,  the  printing- 
press,  the  camera,  the  cinema  film,  the  gramophone 
record.  By  the  Ancient  Greeks  and  Ancient  Romans, 
the  desire  to  collect,  and  above  all  to  conserve,  the 
moveable  furniture  of  the  Earth  was  only  indistinctly 
felt.  As  storehouses,  museums  were  almost  unknown. 
Small  collections  were  made,  but  merely  as  the 
mementos  of  a  soldier's  campaign,  or  a  mariner's 
curiosities,  like  the  "  gorilla  "  skins  brought  home  from 
Africa  by  Hanno. 

*  Reprinted  from  Science  Progress. 


90      THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION 

The  assembling  of  curiosities,  drawing-room  curios, 
bric-a-brac,  and  objets  de  vertu,  was  still  the  immature 
purpose  of  the  conservator,  even  so  late  as  the  days  of 
Sir  Hans  Sloanc,  Elias  Ashmole,  and  John  Hunter. 
Ashmolc's    gift    to    the    University    of   Oxford    was 
laconically  described  as  "twelve  cartloads  of  curios." 
Hunter's  Museum,  as  everyone  knows,  was  a  gorgeous 
miscellany  of  stuffed  birds,  mammals,  reptiles,  fossils, 
plants,  corals,  shells,  insects,  bones,  anatomical  prepar- 
ations, injected  vascular  preparations,  preparations  of 
hollow  viscera,  mercurial  injections,  injections  in  ver- 
milion,  minerals,  coins,   pictures,   weapons,  coats   of 
mail.     It  is  obvious  that  in  those  days  the  collector 
had  not  passed  beyond  the  miscellany  stage.    Accord- 
ing   to    his    pleasure,    he    selected    say    a    Japanese 
midzuire,  a  Scarab  of  Rameses  II.,  a  porpentine's  quill, 
a  hair  from  the  Grand  Cham's  beard,  and  saw  the 
world  as  an  inexhaustible  Bagdad  Bazaar.     Now  he 
sees  it  as  exhaustible,  and  is  grimly  determined  to 
exhaust  it  as  soon  as  may  be. 

To-day  everything  is  changed.  Mankind  is  astride 
the  globe  from  pole  to  pole,  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's 
back.  With  all  the  departments  of  human  knowledge 
clearly  mapped  out  in  the  likeness  of  his  own  mind, 
man  now  occupies  himself  with  collecting  and  filling 
in  the  details.  He  ransacks  heaven  and  earth,  armies 
of  collectors,  brigaded  under  the  different  sciences  and 
arts,  labour  incessantly  for  the  salvation  of  the  globe. 


THE  PASSION   FOR  PERPETUATION      91 

All  objects  are  being  named,  labelled,  and  kept  in 
museums;  all  the  facts  are  being  enshrined  in  the 
libraries  of  books.  We  are  embarked  on  an  amazing 
undertaking.  A  well-equipped  modern  expedition 
apparently  leaves  nothing  behind  in  the  territory 
traversed  save  its  broad  physical  features ;  and  as 
Mont  Blanc  or  the  Andes  cannot  be  moved  even  by 
scientific  Mahomets,  the  geologist's  hammer  deftly 
breaks  off  a  chip,  and  the  fragment  is  carried  off  in 
triumph  to  the  cabinet  as  a  sample. 

It  is  estimated  that  there  are  about  seven  millions 
of  distinct  species  of  insects,  and  naturalists  the  world 
over  have  entered  upon  a  solemn  league  and  covenant 
to  catch  at  least  one  specimen  of  every  kind  which 
shall  be  pinned  and  preserved  in  perpetuity  for  as 
long  as  one  stone  shall  stand  upon  another  in  the 
kingdom  of  man.  There  are  already  an  enormous 
number  of  such  types,  as  they  are  professionally 
called,  not  only  of  insects,  but  of  all  classes  of  animals 
and  plants,  jealously  guarded  and  conserved  by  the 
zealous  officials  of  the  British  Museum. 

»  *  *  *  * 

When  I  was  a  small  boy  I  greedily  saved  up  the 
names  of  naval  vessels  and  inscribed  each  with  a  fair 
round  hand  in  a  MS.  book  specially  kept  for  the 
purpose.  Now  the  financial  or  aesthetic  motives  that 
may  be  said  to  govern  the  boy  collector  of  postage 
stamps,  birds'  eggs,  cigarette  cards  must  here  be  ruled 


92      THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION 

out  of  court.  For  if  half-a-dozen  of  the  rarest  unused 
surcharged  Mauritius,  a  complete  set  of  Wills' 
"Cathedrals"  or  Players'  "Inventions,"  or  a  single 
blood  alley  of  acknowledged  virtue  minister  to  the 
tingling  acquisiti\  eness  of  the  average  schoolboy,  it  is 
difficult  to  say  the  same  of  the  hunting  down  in  news- 
papers and  books  of  battle-ships,  cruisers,  and 
T.B.D.'s.  At  least  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  my 
subconscious  motive  was  a  fear  lest  any  of  His 
Majesty's  ships  should  be  overlooked  or  lost,  that  it 
was  indeed  a  good  example  of  the  instinct  for  simple 
conservation  uncomplicated  by  the  usual  motives  of 
the  collector. 

'  The  joy  of  possession,  the  greed,  vanity  and  self- 
aggrandizement  of  the  collector  proper,  are  deftly  sub- 
verted to  the  use  of  the  explorer  and  conservator  of 
knowledge  who,  having  a  weak  proprietorial  sense — - 
bloodless,  anaemic  it  must  seem  to  the  enthusiastic 
connoisseur — is  satisfied  so  long  as  somewhere  by 
someone  Things  are  securely  saved.  The  purpose  of 
the  archconservator — his  whole  design  and  the 
rationale  of  his  art — is  to  redeem,  embalm,  dry,  cure, 
salt,  pickle,  pot  every  animal,  vegetable  and  mineral, 
every  stage  in  the  history  of  the  universe  from 
nebular  gas  or  planetismals  down  to  the  latest  and 
most  insignificant  event  reported  in  the  newspapers. 
He  would  like  to  treat  the  globe  as  the  experimental 
embr)ologist  treats  an  egg — to  preserve  it  whole  in 


THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION      93 

every  hour  of  its  development  and  then  section  it  with  ] 
a  microtome. 


People  who  are  not  in  the  habit  of  visiting  or  con- 
sidering Museums  fail  to  realize  how  prodigiously 
within  recent  times  the  zeal  for  conservation,  or  as 
Sir  Thomas  Browne  puts  it — the  diuturnity  of  relics 
has  increased  all  over  the  world  in  every  centre  of 
civilization.  A  constant  stream  of  objects  flows  into 
the  great  treasuries  of  human  inheritance — about 
400,000  separate  objects  per  annum  being  received 
into  the  British  Museum  in  Bloomsbury,  and  there  is 
scarcely  a  capital  in  Europe  or  a  big  town  in  America 
in  which  congestion  is  not  already  being  felt. 

In  a  Museum  you  shall  find  not  only  the  loin  cloth 
or  feathers  of  the  savage,  but  an  almost  perfect  series 
of  costumes  worn  by  man  down  through  the  ages  in 
any  country.  Man's  past  in  particular  is  preserved 
with  the  tenderest  care.  It  is  possible  to  go  and,  with 
the  utmost  pride  and  self-satisfaction,  observe  the 
milestones  of  man's  progress  from  the  arrowhead  to 
the  modern  rifle,  from  the  Sedan-chair  and  hobby- 
horse to  the  motor  cycle  and  aeroplane,  from  the 
spinning-wheel  to  the  modern  loom,  from  the  Caxton 
printing-press  to  the  linotype,  from  Stephenson's 
Rocket  to  the  railway  express  engine,  from  the  coracle 
to  the  latest  ocean  greyhound  in  miniature.  It  is  all 
there  :   china,  tobacco  pipes,  door  handles,  iron  rail- 


94      THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION 

ings,  bedsteads,  clavichords,  buttons,  lamps,  vases, 
sherds,  bones,  Babylonian  and  Hittite  tablets,  the 
Moabite  stone,  the  autographs  and  MSS.  of  everyone 
who  was  anybody  since  writing  came  into  common 
practice,  scarabs  and  coins,  scarabs  of  the  Rameses 
and  Amenhetcps,  coins  of  Greece  and  Rome,  coins  of 
Arabia,  coins  of  Cyrenaica,  coins  from  Colophon, 
Tyre,  Sidon, — Nineveh's  Winged  Bulls. 

I  knew  a  police  inspector  who  saved  and  docketed 
the  cigar  ashes  of  Royalties,  and  I  once  heard  of  a 
distinguished  chiropodist  who  saved  their  nail 
parings.  Mr.  Pierpont  Morgan  owns  the  largest 
collection  of  watches  in  the  world,  and  another 
American  is  the  proud  possessor  of  the  only  complete 
collection  of  "  Crusoes  "  in  existence — i.e.,  the  editions 
of  Robinson  Crusoe  by  Daniel  Defoe. 

»  *  *  «  « 

But  not  only  is  the  past  retrieved  in  fragments;  in 
some  Museums  and  Exhibitions  and  to  a  certain 
extent  in  historical  plays,  it  is  actually  reconstructed  : 
in  London  is  displayed  the  interior  of  an  apothecary's 
shop  in  the  seventeenth  century  with  its  crocodile  and 
bunches  of  herbs,  or  the  shop  of  a  barber  surgeon,  or 
a  reconstruction  of  the  laboratory  used  by  Liebig,  or 
the  Bromley  Room,  or  Shakespeare's  Globe  Theatre  in 
exact  facsimile,  or  Solomon's  Temple,  while  for  the 
purposes  of  illustration,  Madam  Tussaud's  nmst  for 
the   moment    be    classed    with    the    Pantheon.      The 


THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION      95 

cinema  is  going  to  keep  alive  the  persons  and  events 
of  the  present  generation  within  the  most  sluggish 
imaginations  of  the  next — for  the  benefit  of  those  who 
perhaps  don't  read  history  or  visit  Museums.  This 
need  not  mean  the  gradual  atrophy  of  the  imagination 
as  some  Solomon  Eagles  portend — to  discuss  which 
would  mean  a  digression.  In  any  case,  I  fancy  the 
most  lively  imagination  would  scarcely  ignore  the 
opportunity  of  seeing  Dr.  Johnson,  let  us  say,  walk 
down  Fleet  Street  tapping  each  lamp-post  with  his 
stick,  if  an  authentic  film  of  him  were  in  existence,  or 
of  listening  to  a  gramophone  record  of  Rachel  or 
Edmund  Burke. 

Wherever  one  turns,  it  is  easy  to  see  this  thriving 
mstmct  of  the  human  heart.  There  are  enthusiastic 
leagues  for  preserving  woods,  forests,  footpaths, 
commons,  trees,  plants,  animals,  ancient  buildings, 
historical  sites.  In  times  to  come,  nearly  every  private 
house  in  London  will  have  historical  connections  and 
bear  a  commemorative  tablet.  In  anticipation  of  its 
extinction  the  hansom  cab  has  already  been  lodged 
behind  the  portals  of  its  last  depository.  Everywhere 
enthusiasts  are  expending  a  vast  amount  of  energy  in 
inducing  people  to  stick  to  the  old — pedants  will  have, 
you  use  the  old  idioms  and  spellings,  the  language 
must  be  preserved  in  its  original  beauty;  no  ancient 
rite  or  custom  can  be  allowed  to  lapse  into  desuetude 
but  some  cry  of  reprobation  goes  up  to  Heaven  in 


96     THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION 

righteous  anger.    There  are  anniversaries,  centenaries, 

bicentenaries,  tercentenaries — glutinous  tercentenaries  ! 

«  •  »  »  * 

Perhaps  the  most  valuable  instrument  for  perpetua- 
tion is  the  printing-press.  No  sooner  is  an  event  over, 
than  it  is  reported  in  the  daily  press,  and  the  news- 
paper preserved  in  the  British  Museum  for  all  time. 
In  future  there  will  be  no  historical  lacunae.  In  virtue 
of  our  elaborate  precautions  it  is  improbable  that 
London  will  ever  become  a  second  Nineveh.  Imme- 
diately a  discovery  is  made  or  a  research  brought  to 
its  conclusion  the  world  is  copiously  informed.  In  the 
present  era  of  publicity,  we  need  never  fear  that  a 
man's  secrets  will  die  with  him.  It  were  safe  to 
prophesy  that  there  will  never  be  another  Mrs.  Stopes, 
for  the  good  reason  that  his  contemporaries  will  never 
let  a  second  Shakespeare  slip  through  their  fingers  so 
to  speak.  A  lament  like  the  scholar's  over  the  loss  oi 
the  Diakosmos  of  Demokritus  will  probably  never  be 
heard  again.  Within  the  sacred  rotunda  of  the 
British  Museum  Reading  Room  may  be  perused  the 
novels  of  Charles  Garvice  as  well  as  the  great  Chinese 
Encyclopsedia  prepared  for  the  Emperor  K'ang-hi  in 
5,020  volumes. 

In  books  our  knowledge  to  date  is  rounded  up  and 
displayed  :  you  can  read  a  book  on  a  lump  of  coal,  a 
grass  blade,  a  sea  worm,  on  hair  combs,  carpets,  ships, 
sticks,  sealing  wax,  cabbages,  kings,  cosmetics,  Kant. 


THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION      9; 

A  very  thick  volume  indeed  was  published  last  year 
upon  the  anatomy  of  the  thorax  of  the  field  cricket. 
It  would  require  a  learned  man  to  catalogue  the 
literature  that  deals  with  such  comparatively  trivial 
subjects  as  the  History  of  the  Punch  and  Judy  Show, 
or  the  History  of  Playing  Cards. 

At  the  present  rapid  rate  of  accumulation,  the  time 
must  come  when  the  British  Museum,  thousands  of 
years  hence,  will  occupy  an  area  as  large  as  London 
and  the  "  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  "  be  housed  in  a 
building  as  big  as  the  Crystal  Palace  :  an  accumulation 
of  learning  to  make  Aristotle  and  Scaliger  turn  pale. 

For  let  us  not  forget  that  man  is  only  at  the 
beginning  of  things.  The  first  Egyptian  dynasty 
began  7000  B.C.  and  we  are  now  only  in  A.D.  191 6. 
Every  day  sees  the  birth  of  entirely  new  things  that 
must  be  collected  and  preserved,  new  babies,  new 
wars,  new  books,  new  discoveries,  so  that — to  take  a 
moderate  figure — by  3000  A.D.  we  shall  have  saved  up 
such  a  prodigious  quantity  of  the  relics  and  minutiae 
of  the  past  that  only  a  relatively  small  fraction  of  it 
will  be  contained  in  the  united  consciousness  of  the 
men  of  that  time.  Everything  will  be  there  and 
accessible,  but  for  reference  only.  Knowledge  will  be 
an  amazing  organization  (let  us  hope  it  wiU  be  done 
better  than  the  Poor  Law  System),  and  battalions  of 
men  of  the  intellectual  lineage  of  Diderot  and 
D'Alembert  will  be  continuously  occupied  in  sifting 


9«     THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION 

and  arranging  our  stores  of  information,  whereby  tlie 
curious,  by  handing  a  query  over  the  counter,  will  be 
given  all  the  knowledge  in  existence  in  any  particular 
subject.  Yet  for  the  most  part  human  knowledge  will 
be  left  stranded  high  and  dry  in  books :  entombed, 
embalmed,  labelled,  and  clean  forgotten — unless  the 
human  brain  becomes  hypcrtrophied. 

♦  ♦  *  *  ♦ 
Conservation  is  a  natural  tendency   of  the  mind. 

One  might  lay  down  a  certain  law  of  the  conservation 
of  consciousness  to  indicate  our  extreme  repugnance  to 
the  idea  of  anything  passing  clean  away  into  the  void. 
What  insinuating  comfort  in  those  words  that  every 
hair  of  our  heads  is  numbered  ! 

True,  the  chain  of  causation  is  unbroken,  and  in  a 
sense  every  effect  is  the  collection  and  preservation  of 
all  its  past  causes ;  and  if  to  live  can  be  said  to  exist 
in  results,  then  no  man  ever  dies,  and  no  thought  can 
perish,  and  every  act  is  infinite  in  its  consequences. 
Yet  I  fancy  this  transcendental  flourish  will  not 
satisfy  the  brotherhood  of  Salvationists,  who  desire  to 
possess  something  more  than  the  means  embodied 
abstractly  in  the  result;  no  consideration  will  ever 
cause  them  to  abate  one  jot  their  feverish  labours  to 
forestall  their  common  enemies  :  Cormorant  devouring 
Time,  man's  own  leaky  memory,  Death's  abhorred 
shears,  the  Futurist,  the  Hun,  the  Vandal,  the  Carrion 

worm  or  the  Devil. 

*  «  «  •  * 


THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATIOxN      99 

The  instinct  for  conservation  in  different  men  hcis 
different  origins.  To  the  scientihc  man,  Nature  is 
higgledy-piggledy,  until  she  is  collected,  classified, 
stored,  and  explained  according  to  his  own  scheme; 
every  phenomenon,  unobserved  or  imperfectly  compre- 
hended, escapes  and  flows  past  him,  defeating  his 
will  to  understand.  In  politics  conservatism  means 
a  distrust  of  the  unknown  future  suited  to  a  comfort- 
able habituation  to  current  customs  and  current 
statecraft,  or — to  quote  Fluellen — the  ceremonies  of  it 
and  the  cares  of  it  and  the  forms  of  it  and  the  sobriety 
of  it  and  the  modesty  of  it.  In  stiU  another  direction, 
the  desire  to  conserve  is  simply  a  sentiment  for  the  old, 
for  the  old  unhappy,  far-off  things.  The  flight  of 
time,  its  likeness  to  a  running  stream,  the  great  world 
spinning  down  the  grooves  of  change,  endless  change 
and  decay,  have  been  food  for  the  melancholy  rumina- 
tions of  philosophers  and  poets  from  the  earliest 
times.  "  Tout  ce  qui  fut  un  jour  et  n'est  plus 
aujourd'hui  incline  a  la  tristesse  surtout  ce  qui  fut 
tres  beau  et  tres  heureux,"  says  Maeterlinck. 

But  regard  for  the  old  is  not  always  vague  senti- 
ment alone.  In  one  of  his  essays,  Emerson  remarks 
that  Nature  often  turns  to  ornament  what  she  once 
employed  for  use,  illustrating  his  suggestion  with 
certain  sea  shells,  in  which  the  parts  which  have  for  a 
time  formed  the  mouth  are  at  the  next  whorl  of  growth 
left  behind  as  decorative  nodes  and  spines.     Subse- 


loo    THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION 

quently,  Herbert  Spencer  applied  the  idea  to  human 
beings,  remarking  how  the  material  exuviae  of  past 
social  states  become  the  ornaments  of  the  present — 
for  example,  ruined  castles,  old  rites  and  ceremonies, 
old  earthenware  water-jars.  The  explanation  of  this 
metamorphosis  simply  is  that  so  long  as  a  thing  is 
useful,  its  beauty  goes  for  the  most  part  unobserved. 
Beauty  is  the  pursuit  of  leisure,  and  it  was  probably 
in  those  rh}'thmic  periods  of  relaxation  when  the 
primitive  potter  or  stone  carver  paused  from  his 
labour  that  the  aesthetic  sense  according  to  some  was 
given  birth. 

«  «  *  «  » 

Now  it  is  certain  that  there  be  some  to  whom  the 
perpetuation  of  Stonehenge  or  the  Diplodocus  is  a 
matter  of  large  indifference,  in  whom  arises  no  joy  in 
the  fruits  of  the  conservator's  art  upon  handling  say  a 
Syracusan  tetradrachm  or  a  folio  of  Shakespeare  with 
"  the  excessively  rare  title-page  '  for  Richard 
Meighen.'  "  Yet  over  the  question  of  self-perpetuation 
these  same  men  will  be  as  desirous  as  otliers.  Few 
men  save  Buddhists  relish  the  idea  of  self-extinction. 
No  one  likes  the  thought  of  the  carrion  worm  in  the 
seat  of  intellect.  The  Egyptians  bravely  fought  the 
course  of  Nature  and  gained  some  solace  we  may 
assume  by  embalming.  Christians  if  they  resign 
themselves  to  the  decay  of  the  body,  labour  in  its 
stead  to  save  the  soul.     On  his  death,  every  man  at 


THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION    loi 

least  claims  a  tombstone.  The  surface  of  the  earth  is 
stippled  with  crosses  (especially  in  France),  with 
monuments,  obelisks,  mausoleums,  pyramids,  ceno- 
taphs, tombs,  tumuli,  barrows,  cairns  designed  to 
keep  evergreen  the  memory  of  the  dead,  to  forestall 
oblivion  lurking  like  a  ghoul  in  the  background. 
Look  at  Keats's  naive  preoccupation  with  his  future 
fame,  his  passionate  desire  to  be  grouped  among  the 
heirs  of  all  eternity.  If  we  are  to  believe  Shakespeare 
and  the  Elizabethan  sonneteers  their  common  obses- 
sion was  to  combat  brass  and  stone  with  their  own 
immortal  lines. 

No  doubt  there  are  a  few  apparently  sincere,  high- 
minded  gentlemen  ("Rocky  Mountain  toughs"  William 
James  calls  them)  who  emphatically  declare  that  when 
they  die  they  will,  after  cremation,  have  their  ashes 
scattered  to  the  winds  of  heaven,*  who  scoff  at  the 
salvation  of  their  souls  and  quote  Haeckel's  jibe  about 
God  as  "  a  gaseous  vertebrate,"  who  are  indifferent  to 
fame  and  spurn  monuments  that  live  no  longer  than 

*  In  accordance  with  his  wishes,  the  body  of  Samuel  Butler 
(of  "Erewhon")  was  cremated  and  the  ashes  buried  near  some 
shrubs  in  the  garden  of  the  crematorium  with  nothing  to  mark 
the  spot.  Sir  Thomas  Browne  said  that  at  his  death  he  meant 
to  take  a  total  adieu  of  the  world,  "  not  caring  for  a  Monument, 
Historic,  or  Epitaph,  not  so  much  as  the  bare  memory  of  my 
name  to  be  found  anywhere  but  in  the  universal  Register  of 
God."  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  given  a  brass  coffin- 
plate  (with  a  curious  inscription  that  has  afforded  matter  for 
antiquarian  controversy)  as  well  as  a  mural  monument. 


102    THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION 

the  bell  rings  and  the  widow  weeps.  In  short,  since 
conservation  must  always  be  o'erswayed  by  sad  mor- 
tality in  the  long  run,  they  will  have  nothing  of  it. 
"  Give  me  my  scallop  shell  of  quiet,"  they  would  say — 
and  let  the  world  pass  on  its  primrose  way  to  the 
everlasting  bonfire. 

But  conservation  cannot  be  so  summarily  set  aside. 
Every  man,  willy-nilly,  collects  and  preserves,  his 
consciousness  is  of  itself  an  automatic  collecting 
instrument.  The  alert  mind  collects  observations  and 
impressions  without  being  conscious  of  them.  Then, 
later,  when  the  note  is  struck,  to  our  surprise  they  rise 
up  into  vision  as  if  from  nowhere.  The  memory  is  a 
preservative.  After  a  life  of  it  a  man's  mind  is  a 
Museum,  a  palimpsest,  a  hold-all.  In  the  heyday  of 
manhood  we  may  perhaps  go  adventuring  on  in 
lavish  expenditure  of  life,  nomads,  careless  of  the  day 
as  soon  as  it  is  over.  Yet  he  must  be  a  very  rare  bird 
indeed,  the  veteran  who  when  all  the  wheels  are  run 
down  does  not  choose  to  write  his  memoirs  or  even  to 
relate  reminiscences  around  the  fireside,  the  broken 
soldier  who  never  shoulders  his  crutch,  the  barrister 
who  never  recalls  his  first  brief.  Two  old  men  will 
haggle  with  one  another  over  the  fixation  of  a  date, 
they  will  pull  up  a  conversation  and  everyone  must 
wait  on  account  of  a  forgotten  name.  .  .  .  This 
morning  I  was  delighted  to  hear  myself  burst  out 
whistling  a  nocturne  of  Chopin,  which  I  have  not 
heard  for  twelve  months,  and  then  for  the  first  time. 


THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION    103 

I  confess  it  was  pleasant  to  think  I  had  been  enter- 
taining an  angel  unawares  all  these  months,  and  I  like 
to  believe  that  in  the  all  too  swift  trajectory  of  one's 
career  through  life,  nothing  is  really  left  behind,  that 
all  the  phantasmagoria  of  our  life  which  seems  to  be 
passing  us  by  on  each  side  for  ever  falls  into  line 
behind  with  the  rest  and  follows  on  like  a  comet's  tail. 
Much  may  be  forgotten,  yet  nothing  perhaps  is  ever 
lost;  no  impression  once  photographed  upon  the  mind 
ever  becomes  obliterated — comfortable  words,  I  appre- 
hend, for  the  benefit  of  any  diarist  whose  eyes  these 
lines  may  catch.  According  to  William  James's 
attractive  "  world-memory  "  idea,  the  whole  history  of 
the  Earth  actually  exists  and  some  occultists  indeed 
claim  to  have  tapped  such  inaccessible  material  as  life 
on  the  extinct  continent  of  Atlantis  or  in  Knossos. 
*  *  *  *  * 

In  1768,  Fanny  Burney  made  this  entry  in  her 
Journal :  "  I  cannot  express  the  pleasure  I  have  in 
writing  down  my  thoughts  at  the  very  moment  .  .  . 
and  I  am  much  deceived  in  my  foresight  if  I  shall  not 
have  very  great  delight  in  reading  this  living  proof  of 
my  manner  of  passing  my  time  .  .  .  there  is  some- 
thing to  me  very  unsatisfactory  in  passing  year  after 
year  without  even  a  memorandum  of  what  you  did- 
etc."  This  is  the  true  spirit  of  the  habitual  diarist 
speaking.  At  heart,  everyone  is  a  diarist.  There  is 
no  child  who  has  not  kept  a  diary  at  some  time  or 
another,  and  there  is  no  one  who  having  given  it  up 


104    THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION 

has  not  regretted  it  later  on.  The  confirmed  journal 
writer,  however,  possesses  a  psychology  not  altogether 
common,  being  one  of  those  few  persons  who  trulv 
appraise  the  beauty,  interest,  and  value  of  the  present 
without  having  to  wait  until  memory  has  lent  the  past 
its  chromatic  fringe. 

When  his  youth  died,  wrote  George  Moore  about 
his  "  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man,"  the  soul  of  the 
ancient  Egyptians  awoke  in  him.  He  had  the  idea  of 
conserving  his  dead  past  in  a  work  of  art,  embalming 
it  with  pious  care  in  a  memorial,  he  hoped,  as  durable 
as  the  pyramids  of  Rameses  II. !     Poor  George  Moore  ! 

It  is  strange  that  so  many  gallant  knights  clad  in 
the  armour  of  steely  determination  should  fight  on, 
unthinking,  against  such  overwhelming  odds.  For  the 
conservators  in  trying  to  dam  back  time,  in  resistmg 
change  and  decay  wrestle  with  the  stars  in  their 
courses  and  dispute  the  very  constitution  of  the 
universe.  But  the  imperative  instinct  must  be  obeyed. 
The  ominous  warnings  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne  are 
unavailing.  "  There  is  no  antidote  for  the  opium  of 
time."  "Gravestones  tell  truth  but  a  year."  "We 
might  just  as  well  be  content  with  six  feet  as  with  the 
moles  of  Adrianus."  And  "  to  subsist  but  in  bones 
and  be  but  pyramidally  extant  is  a  fallacy  in  dura- 
tion." To  erect  a  monument  is  like  trying  to  fix  a 
stick  into  the  bed  of  the  Niagara.  No  memorial  as 
large  and  wonderful  as  the  Taj  Mahal  can  stay  the 
passage  of  a  grief,  no  pen  can  preserve  an  emotion 


THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION    105 

held  for  a  while  in  the  sweet  shackles  of  a  sonnet's 
rules.  Neither  pen  nor  brush  nor  chisel  knows  the  art 
of  perpetuation. 

As  the  torrent  races  past,  frantic  hands  stretch  out 
to  snatch  some  memento  from  the  flood — a  faded 
letter,  an  old  concert  programme,  a  bullet,  the  railway- 
labels  jealously  preserved  on  travellers'  portmanteaux, 
a  lock  of  hair.  "Only  a  woman's  hair,"  said  Swift  in 
the  bitterness  of  his  heart  as  he  handled  Stella's  tress. 

There  are  some  things  we  can  never  hope  to  recall, 
even  so  long  as  the  world  lasts,  except  by  divination 
or  Black  Magic.  The  hopeless  science  of  Palaeon- 
tology offers  its  students  no  tiniest  ray  of  comfort — a 
Pterodactyl,  a  Dinosaur  or  an  Archaeopteryx  will 
never  be  disclosed  to  us  in  the  flesh.  There  are  many 
things  lost  for  ever :  Who  was  the  Man  in  the  iron 
mask  ?  or  the  author  of  the  Letters  of  Junius  ?  or 
Mr.  W.  H.  ? — the  precious  library  burnt  at  Louvain  ? 
And  so  on  by  the  score. 

"  All  is  vanity,  feeding  the  wind  and  folly.    Mummy 

is  become  merchandize,  Mizraim  cures  wounds,  and 

Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams  " — to  borrow  once  more 

from  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  organ  music. 

"  Tarry  awhile  lean  earth  ! 
Rabble  of  Pharaohs  and  Arsacidae 
Keep  their  cold  court  within  thee  ;  thou  hast  sucked 

down 
How  many  Ninevehs  and  Hecatompvloi 
And  perished  cities  whose  great  phantasmata 
O'erbrow  the  silent  citizens  of  Dis." 


io6   THE  PASSION  FOR  PERPETUATION 

Life  is  expenditure.  We  must  always  be  paying 
away.  It  is  sad  to  behold  the  conservators — ecstatic 
hearts — following  like  eager  camp  followers  in  the 
trail  of  the  whirlwind,  collecting  and  saving  the  frag- 
ments so  as  to  work  them  up  into  some  pitiful  history, 
poem,  biography,  monograph,  or  memorial. 

Why  pursue  this  hopeless  task  ?  What  is  the  use  in 
being  precious  and  saving  ?  Nature  wastes  a  thousand 
seeds,  experiments  lightly  with  whole  civilizations, 
and  has  abandoned  a  thousand  planets  that  cycle  in 
space  forgotten  and  cold.  Both  collection  and  recol- 
lection are  insufficient.  The  only  perfect  preservation 
is  re-creation.  Surely  our  zeal  for  conservation  be- 
tokens a  miserly  close-fisted  nature  in  us.  It  cannot 
be  very  magnanimous  on  our  part  to  be  so  precious, 
since  God  and  Nature  are  on  the  side  of  waste.  Let 
us  squander  our  life  and  energy  in  desire,  love, 
experience.  And,  since  so  it  is  to  be,  let  us  without 
vain  regrets  watch  the  universe  itself  be  squandered 
on  the  passing  years,  on  earthquakes,  and  on  wars. 
The  world  is  an  adventurer,  and  we  try  to  keep  him 
at  home — in  a  Museum.  Let  us  not  be  niggardly  over 
our  planet  nor  over  ourselves. 

Yet  it  is  easy  but  fatuous  to  sit  at  a  writing  desk 
and  make  suggestions  for  the  alteration  of  human 
nature.  Conservation  is  as  deeply  rooted  as 
original  sin. 

1916. 


POSSESSION 

Passionate  love  demands  passionate  possession,  yet 
no  beautiful  thing  has  ever  yielded  to  man's  desires. 
There  is  no  true  love  short  of  possession,  and  no  true 
possession  short  of  eating.    Every  lover  is  a  beast  of 
ravin,  every  Romeo  would  be  a  cannibal  if  he  dared, 
G.  K.  Chesterton  somewhere  says  that  in  the  Geological!  I 
Museum  there  are  certain  rich  crimson  marbles,  certain  j 
split  stones  of  blue  and  green  that  made  him  wish  his  j 
teeth  were  stronger. 

The  seat  of  the  affections  is  not  the  heart  but  the 
stomach.  I\Iy  beautiful  tabby  cat  coiled  up  asleep  in 
the  chair  makes  my  mouth  water.  To  watch  the  old 
Guernsey  cow  in  the  field  behind  the  house,  curling  its 
Ibving  tongue  around  the  grass  and  clover  and 
scrunching  them  up  into  a  green  bolus  gives  me  a  real 
hunger.  I  would  like  to  take  up  the  grass  and  flowers 
by  intussusception  into  my  blood. 

Man  loves  and  is  an  hungered  from  the  cradle 
onwards.  The  Mother  says  to  the  Baby,  "Oh!  I 
could  eat  you,"  and  the  baby  tries  its  appetite  on  the 
brass  knobs  of  door  handles,  pieces  of  coal,  paint- 

107 


io8  POSSESSION 

brushes — every  object  in  its  blinding  novelty,  and 
beauty  is  passed  sv^iftly  to  the  mouth. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne  wrote  quaintly  that  "united 
souls  are  not  satisfied  with  embraces,  but  desire  to  be 
truly  each  other."  I  gazed  this  morning  with  devour- 
ing eyes  upon  the  magnificent  torso  of  a  high  forest 
beech-tree.  I  wanted  to  embrace  it,  seize,  possess.  I 
could  have  flung  my  arms  around  its  smooth,  fascinat- 
ing body,  but  the  austerity  of  the  great  creature 
forbade  it.  In  imagination  I  struggled  to  project 
myself  into  its  lithe,  strong  body,  to  feel  its  splendid 
erectness  in  ray  own  bones  and  its  electric  sap,  vitaliz- 
ing my  frame  to  the  finger  tips.  Very  wisely,  a  painter 
once  told  Emerson  that  no  one  could  draw  a  tree 
without  in  some  measure  becoming  a  tree.  Maurice  de 
Gu6rin,  whose  sympathy  with  Nature  was  profound, 
said  he  envied  "  la  vie  forte  et  muette  qui  regne  sous 
r6corce  des  chenes." 

After  lunch,  I  walked  along  by  a  hedge  on  the  out- 
skirts of  a  wood — and  could  see  them  inside — an 
enormous  crowd  of  tens  of  thousands.  They  were  on 
tiptoe,  peering  out  at  me  over  the  top  of  the  hedge 
as  I  stood  peering  in  at  them  :  we  stood  in  silent 
antagonism.  In  the  wood  itself,  it  gave  me  a  pleasur- 
able sense  of  affluence  to  stride  like  Gulliver  among 
these  countless  hordes  of  blue  Lilliputians.  Of  my 
Bluebell  Wood,  an  artist  would  have  said  that  it  was 
an    "interesting    colour   scheme"    or    a    "suggestive 


POSSESSION  109 

arrangement."     But  there  are  days  when  such  com-  1] 
placency  is  very  exasperating.    Here  is  a  bluebell  in 
my  hand,  full  of  beauty  and  full  of  terror  for  me.    If  I 
look  at  it  till  my  eyes  bulge,  if  I  crush  it  up  in  my  fist, 
eat  it,  its  beauty  will  defy  me  and  threaten  me  still. 

Those  two  supreme  torments  to  the  hungry  heart — 
mountains  and  the  sea !  A  mountain  is  a  lodestone, 
I  run  to  it,  I  would  flatten  my  nose  against  it,  be- 
spatter its  rocks  with  that  inconsiderable  piece  of 
matter  which  composes  my  body.  The  sea  gives  me  a 
mighty  thirst,  I  could  drain  it  to  its  oozy  lees.  I 
surrender  myself  to  the  sea  and  plunge  among  the 
waves  which  sadly,  inevitably  cast  me  back  upon  the 
strand.  I  lie  out  upon  the  sand  in  the  sun,  I  should 
like  to  be  branded  deep  in  the  flesh  by  the  sun,  I 
would  offer  myself  as  an  oblation  to  the  God  of  the 
Sun.  I  could  swallow  landscapes  and  swill  down 
sunsets,  or  grapple  the  whole  earth  to  me  with  hoops 
of  steel.    But  the  world  is  so  impassive,  silent,  secret. 

It  is  a  relief  to  drop  a  pebble  into  the  salmon  pool 
on  a  still  June  day,  or  to  see  the  tall  meadow  grass 
falling  in  swathes  as  I  brandish  my  sickle.  Inscrut- 
able matter  ! — "  Take  that,"  I  whisper,  and  split  open 
the  boulders  with  a  hammer. 

What  insane  satisfaction  may  be  got  from  lighting 
a  fire  !  I  love  to  let  loose  the  tiger  of  6re  upon  a  heap 
of  sticks,  I  could  fire  the  whole  wood,  the  rick,  the 
farmhouse,  the  town.     It  would  be  my  revenge  on 


no  POSSESSION 

inscrutable  matter  for  being  inscrutable,  on  beauty  for 
not  explaining  herself. 

Beauty  is  too  menacing  merely  to  contemplate.  No 
one  can  face  her  without  consciousness  of  struggle. 
She  must  be  fought  and  grappled  with.  Alan  must  be 
always  measuring  his  strength  with  her  lest  she  clutch 
him  by  the  heart  and  he  be  overwhelmed. 

One  afternoon,  several  winters  ago,  with  the  world 
cold,  hard,  crystallme,  and  the  earth  gripped  in  ice,  1 
reached  the  top  of  a  granite  Tor,  just  as  the  sun  with 
all  pomp  was  entering  its  western  porticoes  of  green 
and  gold  and  chrysoprase.  I  stood  alone  in  a  wilder- 
ness of  rocks  and  heather,  having  penetrated,  it 
seemed,  to  the  last  outposts  of  mortal  life  and  human 
understanding.  On  that  desolate  hilltop  no  one  was 
present  save  me  and  the  sun.  I  had  the  whole  universe 
to  myself — a  flattering  moment  for  the  egotist.  Now 
it  seemed  was  the  appointed  hour.  The  moment  was 
opportune,  and  I  saw  myself  in  a  grandiose  ceremony 
pressing  my  suit  with  the  President  of  the  Immortals 
before  the  sinking  of  the  sun.  Being  on  top  of  the  hill 
was  in  my  exhilaration  like  being  on  top  of  the  world. 
Yet  that  was  not  high  enough,  and  I  strained  to  raise 
myself  still  higher,  to  pierce  beyond  the  veil  of  blue 
sky  above,  to  rise  by  some  sort  of  levitation  to  a  grand 
apocalypse.  I  stood  still,  struggling,  fighting,  hoping, 
striving — I  almost  wheedled  God  to  tell  me  all.  I 
held  out  my  hands  to  a  white  sail  on  the  sea  500  feet 


POSSESSION  III 

below  and  sunset  bound.  To  the  sun  I  remonstrated  : 
"  You  know  !  Tell  me  before  you  go."  But  the  sail 
disappeared  into  the  sunset,  and  the  sun  sank  in  a 
heinous  silence,  leaving  the  horizon  empty — that  long, 
merciless  line.  I  was  once  more  thrown  back  upon  the 
unintelligibility  of  the  universe;  only  a  nightjar 
whirred  down  among  the  shrubby  oaks — that  was  all 
the  answer  I  obtained.  In  the  darkness  and  isolation 
of  the  hiU-top,  I  grew  frightened  at  myself  and  at  the 
world,  and  walked  off  down  the  hill  in  a  desperate 
hurry,  eager  for  a  roof  to  screen  me  from  the  infinite 
stars,  for  a  human  hand  to  shake,  to  pat  a  dog's  head 
— anything  to  escape  from  this  silent  and  menacing 
world.  "  The  eternal  silence  of  these  infi.nite  spaces 
frightens  me,"  wrote  Pascal.  After  such  spiritual 
adventures,  it  is  necessary  to  eat  a  beef-steak  quickly 
in  order  to  restore  confidence  in  the  positivist  position. 
No  more  God  for  me. 


ON  AMIEL  AND  SOME  OTHERS 

Madam  DE  StaeL  decided  that  the  country  of  her 
choice  was  "  with  the  chosen  souls."  Amiel's  com- 
mentary is  characteristic.  His  own  countrymen  and 
his  European  neighbours  are  no  more  to  him  than  the 
Brazilians  or  the  Chinese.  The  illusions  of  patriotism, 
he  tells  us,  of  Chauvinist,  of  family,  or  of  professional 
feeling-,  did  net  exist  for  him.  The  author  of  the 
"  Religio  Medici "  in  a  famous  passage  incurred 
Charles  Lamb's  gentle  sarcasms  for  a  similar  confes- 
sion that  he  had  no  national  repugnances.  Lamb's 
very  considerable  pride  of  individuality  exhibited 
itself  in  the  frequent  expression  of  his  antipathies, 
apathies,  sympathies,  idiosyncrasies,  and  a  "thousand 
whim-whams,"  which  lovers  of  Elia  know  so  well.  He 
professed  to  have  felt  "  yearnings  of  tenderness " 
towards  some  negro  faces  and  hated  Scotchmen.  Now 
it  is  easy  to  be  very  fond  of  Charles  Lamb.  He  is  one 
of  ourselves  with  like  passions  and  emotions,  and  self- 
comparison  with  so  great  an  artist  is  always  flattering 
and  pleasant.  But  two  such  intellectual  aristocrats  as 
Amiel  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne  are  not  for  popular 
consumption. 

113  8 


114       ON  AMIEL  AND  SOME  OTHERS 

They   were  not   merely  cosmopolites   but  univers- 
alists.    From  the  mountain  fastnesses  of  his  own  mind, 
Amiel  was  for  ever  reviewing  the  kingdoms  of  this 
world,  watching  people  like  ants  running  hither  and 
thither   in   pursuit   of  their   private   ends;   from   his 
infinite  distance  above  he  saw  the  finite  world  below, 
and    thenceforward    "  the    significance    of    all    those 
things  which  men  hold  to  be  important  makes  effort 
ridiculous,  passion  burlesque,  and  prejudice  absurd." 
With  a  complacency  that  after  the  anguish  and  tears 
of  Amiel  seems  almost  ridiculous,  good  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  expresses  himself  thus  in  a  sentence  known  to 
everyone  :    "  I  am  of  a  constitution,"  the  dear  man 
wrote,  "so  general  that  it  comports  and  sympathizeth 
with  all  things.     I  have  no  antipathy  or  rather  idio- 
syncrasy in  diet,  humour,  air,  anything.    I  wonder  not 
at  the  French  for  their  dishes  of  frogs,  snails,  and 
toadstools,  nor  at  the  Jews  for  locusts  and  grass- 
hoppers. ...    In  brief,  I  am  averse  from  nothing  :  my 
conscience  would  give  me  the  lie  if  I  should  absolutely 
detest  any  essence  but  the  devil." 

Amiel  possessed  one  of  the  loftiest  and  most 
remarkable  minds  in  intellectual  history.  It  was  so 
immense  in  its  compass,  his  mental  altitude  was  so 
great,  that  throughout  life  he  suffered  from  a  mountain 
sickness,  that  "  maladie  de  I'ideal "  in  M.  Caro's 
phrase,  and  in  his  own  that  "  6blouissement  de 
j'infini "  which  incapacitated  him  from  all  participa- 


ON  AMIEL  AND  SOME  OTHERS       115 

tion  in  ordinary  human  affairs.  To  outward  view,  he  • 
was  a  rather  dull  Genevese  Professor  who  had  disap- 
pointed all  his  friends  by  his  mental  immobility.  But 
within,  his  whole  life  was  a  war — a  struggle  to  the 
death  between  his  heart,  which  demanded  love  and 
kindly  human  interests,  and  his  intellect  with  its 
almost  unholy  craving  for  the  infinite.  He  was  Faust 
and  Hamlet  in  one.  He  could  sit  and  conjure  up 
"  grandiose,  immortal,  cosmogonic  dreams,"  in  a  state 
of  volitional  paralysis,  unwilling  to  do,  think,  or  say, 
any  particular  thing  lest  his  zealously  guarded 
universality  should  in  an  instant  contract  to  the  size  of 
a  pin's  headed  actuality.  Action  was  his  cross. 
Reveries  and  aspirations  and  the  ravages  of  his  Faust- 
like ambition  to  fetch  a  compass  of  the  whole  universe 
resulted  in  colossal  ennui  and  self -contempt.  "  Life," 
he  says,  "  is  the  shadow  of  a  smoke  wreath,  a  gesture 
in  the  empty  air,  a  hieroglyph  traced  for  an  instant  on 
the  sand  and  effaced  a  mom.ent  later  by  a  breath  of 
wind,  an  air-bubble  ...  an  appearance,  a  vanity,  a 
nothing."  And  again,  the  wonderful  simile  :  "  Man's 
life  is  a  soap-bubble  hanging  from  a  reed." 

In  the  course  of  a  single  day,  he  was  accustomed  to 
make  a  lightning  sweep  through  whole  fields  of  human 
thought  and  human  endeavour,  now  thrilled  into 
ecstasy,  now  overwhelmed  and  unstrung  by  his  own 
nothingness  and  God's  Omnipotence.  "  I  have  been 
j'eading  a  great  deal,"  he  begins  a  wonderful  passage, 


ii6       ON  AMIEL  AND  SOME  OTHERS 

"  I  have  traversed  the  universe  from  the  deepest  depths 
of  the  Empyrean  to  the  peristaltic  movements  of  the 
atoms  in  the  elementary  cell.  I  have  felt  myself 
expanding  in  the  infinite  and  enfranchized  in  spirit 
from  the  bounds  of  time  and  space,  able  to  trace  back 
the  whole  boundless  creation  to  a  point  without 
dimensions,  and  seeing  the  vast  multitude  of  suns  and 
milky  ways,  of  stars  and  nebulas  all  existent  in  the 
point.  And  on  all  sides  stretched  mysteries,  marvels, 
and  prodigies  without  limit,  without  number,  and 
without  end.  ...  I  touched,  proved,  tasted,  embraced 
my  nothingness  and  my  immensity ;  I  kissed  the  hem 
of  the  garments  of  God,  and  gave  Him  thanks  for 
being  spirit  and  for  being  life."  .  .  .  But  such  inspir- 
ing passages  are  not  common  in  the  Journal.  One's 
general  impression  of  it  is  the  world  as  a  sterile 
promontory,  and  all  its  uses  weary,  stale,  flat,  and 
unprofitable.  It  would  be  manifestly  foolish  to  call 
Amiel  a  prig,  yet  he  was  in  a  literal  sense  too  big  for 
his  boots.  His  soul,  that  is,  was  too  big  for  his  body 
and  suffered  daily  from  its  intolerable  compression. 
His  own  finiteness  was  like  a  ligature  round  his  heart, 
he  gasped  for  a  serener  air  than  the  troubled  one  of 
this  planet,  he  lived  in  his  body  like  a  prisoner,  and 
death  was  his  escape— the  translation  of  a  soul  incar- 
nated by  sad  mischance. 

Nobody   supposes   Amiel    was   alone   in   his   heart 
sickness.      Everyonr,    at    times    of    spiritual    unrest, 


ON  AMIEL  AND  SOME  OTHERS       117 

shakes  out  his  wings  and  tries  to  fly,  only  to  hnd  that 
mortahty  is  a  cage  with  strong  bars.  But  Amiel  is 
remarkable  in  the  intensity  of  his  suffering.  The 
malady  debilitated  his  intellect,  sterilized  his  un- 
doubted genius,  immobilized  his  eager  and  devouring 
life.  For  underneath  his  lassitude  smouldered  a 
passion  for  life  as  intense  as  Walt  Whitman's.  "  A 
passionate  desire  to  live,  to  feel,  to  expresS;  stirred  the 
depths  of  my  heart.  ...  It  was  as  though  something 
explosive  had  caught  fire  and  one's  soul  scattered  to 
the  four  winds.  In  such  a  mood,  one  would  fain 
devour  the  whole  world,  experience  everything,  see 
everything." 

The  sentiment  for  universality  in  different  persons 
has  curiously  dixerse  results.  In  Amiel  it  produced 
lethargy,  and  this  condition  is  perhaps  not  uncommon 
in  greater  or  lesser  degree  among  intellectual  Russians. 
In  Goncharov's  novel,  Oblomov  is  depicted  prostrate  ' 
beneath  the  weight  of  his  inappeasable  desires  and  an  j 
ebullient  vie  inti:ue.  Edward  FitzGerald  was  possessed 
of  the  same  infirmity  of  purpose,  the  same  indolence, 
the  same  acute  and  sceptical  mind,  the  same  languor 
and  irresolution  as  Amiel,  with  the  one  inconsiderable 
difference  that  Amiel  was  a  Christian  and  Hegelian 
and  FitzGerald  was  a  Pagan. 

But  the  hallmark  of  the  universalist  is  his  lust  of 
life.  He  wants  everything,  and  he  wants  it  at  once. 
The  languorous  Amiel  admits  that  he  discovered  it 


iiS       UN  AMIEL  AND  SOME  OTHERS 

easier  to  give  up  a  wish  than  to  satisfy  it,  and  so  not 
being  able  to  satisfy  all  his  nature  longed  for  he 
renounced  the  whole  en  bloc.  But  where  Amiel  stood 
on  the  brink,  introspected,  hesitated,  and  drew  back, 
Walt  Whitman,  a  universalist  par  excellence^  plunged 
voraciously  and  voluptuously  into  Nature's  treasures. 
...  It  is  an  unpleasant  trick  which  certain  critics 
have  of  describing  men  in  terms  of  the  pathologist. 
But  in  drawing  attention  to  the  fundamental  likeness 
between  Amiel  and  Whitman  it  would  be  a  mistake  to 
overlook  their  fundamental  difference  :  Amiel's  low 
health — the  misery  of  being  continuously  undermined 
in  strength  and  energy — and  Whitman's  high  opsonic 
index.  Walt  Whitman's  desire  of  life  hounded  him 
along  his  existence — everything  was  caught  hold  of, 
seized  a  moment  in  turn  and  nothing  was  enough  to 
satisfy.  His  chain  lists,  his  lightning  traverses  across 
the  world  of  consciousness,  his  tireless  but  vain  efforts 
to  compass  the  earth  and  to  embrace  all  made  R.  L. 
Stevenson  a  little  petulantly  remark  :  "  He  wishes  to 
knock  the  four  corners  of  the  universe  one  after  the 
other  about  his  readers'  ears.  His  whole  life  is  to  him 
what  it  was  to  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  one  perpetual 
miracle.  Everything  is  strange,  everything  unaccount- 
able, everything  beautiful,  from  a  bug  to  the  moon, 
from  the  sight  of  the  eyes  to  the  appetite  for  food." 
One  can  detect  in  the  passage  a  trace  of  the  English- 
man's quiet  amusement  at  American  deportment,  and 


ON  AMIEL  AND  SOME  OTHERS       119 

certainly  no  universalist  whose  mind  is  like  a  "  hold- 
all "  can  expect  to  win  approval  from  the  fastidious 
critic  who  rejects  and  selects. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  writes  that  wonderful  Russian  girl 
Marie  Bashkirtseff,  "  that  no  one  loves  everything  as 
I  do — the  fine  arts,  music,  painting,  books,  society, 
dress,  luxury,  excitement,  calm,  laughter  and  tears, 
love,  melancholy,  humbug,  the  snow  and  sunshine. 
...  I  admire,  I  adore  it  all.  ...  I  should  like  to  see, 
possess,  embrace  it  all,  be  absorbed  in  it,  and  die,  since 
I  must  in  two  years  or  in  thirty — die  in  an  ecstasy  in 
order  to  analyse  this  final  mystery,  this  end  of  all  or 
this  beginning."  She  is  avid  of  all  learning  and  reads 
everything  (including  the  "  De  Rerum  Natural"). 
She  works  in  a  fever,  greedy  of  every  hour.  She  wants 
a  dozen  lives,  so  as  to  sample  a  dozen  different 
existences.  "  I  envy  learned  men,  even  those  who  are 
)'ellow,  emaciated,  and  ugly." — "  To  marry  and  have 
children — any  washerwoman  could  do  that !"  screams 
this  young  person. 

Another  consumptive  gives  similar  but  still  more 
forcible  expression  to  his  ferocious  hunger  for  life.  In 
"The  Story  of  my  Heart"  Richard  Jefferies  reveals 
himself  thus  :  "  I  envy  Semiramis.  I  would  be  ten 
times  Semiramis.  I  envy  Nero  because  of  the  great 
concourse  of  beauty  that  he  saw.  I  should  like  to  be 
loved  by  every  beautiful  woman  on  earth,  from  the 
swart  Nubian  to  the  white  and  divine  Greek."     But 


120      ON  AMIEL  AND  SOME  OTHERS 

his  strength  is  not  enough  to  gratify  his  desire.  "  If  I 
had  the  strength  of  the  ocean  and  of  the  earth,  the 
burning  vigour  of  the  sun  implanted  in  my  Hmbs,  't 
would  hardly  suffice  to  gratify  the  measureless  desire 
of  hfe  which  possesses  me.  And  if  it  were  possible  to 
live  again  "  ;;and  he  directly  recalls  Marie  Bashkirtscff 
quoted  above),  "  it  would  be  exquisite  to  die,  pushing 
the  eager  breast  against  the  sword."  In  short,  to  quote 
Amiel  again,  "  I  love  everything,  and  detest  one  thing 
only — the  hopeless  imprisonment  of  my  being  within 
a  single  arbitrary  form  even  were  it  chosen  by 
myself." 

The  difference  between  Amiel  and  these  others  is 
almost  solely  one  of  emphasis.  The  one  laid  stress  on 
his  hopeless  insatiety,  and  the  others  on  their  infinite 
desires.  Marie  Bashkirtscff  and  Richard  Jeff  eries  with 
feverish  vigour  throw  out  their  challenging  desires, 
and  rush  on  without  lingering  for  answer  or  for  echo. 
Amiel  is  full  of  repining,  and  cannot  accept  his  fate. 

At  first  sight  it  may  seem  an  odd  partnership,  but 
beyond  all  doubt  Amiel,  Walt  Whitman,  Richard 
Jefferies  (in  his  last  book),  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  and 
the  little  Russian  girl  Marie  Bashkirtscff,  possessed 
something  in  common  and  sometliing  vital.  All  of 
them  were  powerful  centrifugal  forces  rushing  away 
from  themselves  in  an  incontinent  desire  for  the  whole 
universe.  There  is  one  further  point  of  close  resem- 
blance— perhaps  correlative  with  the  other — especially 


ON  AMIEL  AND  SOME  OTHERS       121 

noticeable  as  between  Araiel  and  Richard  Jefferies, 
whom  at  times  a  certain  cold  stark  wonder  at  the 
beauty  and  mystery  of  the  world  gripped  so  strongly 
as  to  shake  the  very  pillars  of  their  minds.  The 
following  parallel  quotations  will  show  : 

"  There  are  days  when  all  these  details  seem  to  me 
a  dream,  when  I  wonder  at  the  desk  under  my  hand, 
at  my  body  itself,  when  I  ask  myself  if  there  is  a 
street  before  my  house  and  if  all  this  geographical 
and  topographical  pliantasmagoria  is  indeed  real ! 
Time  and  space  become  mere  specks.  ...  I  see  myself 
sub  specie  (Siernitalis  "  fAmiel's  Journal  Intime). 

And  Richard  Jefferies  : 

"  The  fact  of  my  own  existence  as  I  write,  as  I  exist 
at  this  second,  is  so  marvellous,  so  miracle-like,  strange 
and  supernatural  to  me,  that  I  unhesitatingly  conclude 
I  am  always  on  the  margin  of  life  illimitable,  and  that 
there  are  higher  conditions  than  existence." 

The  other  members  of  the  fellowship  follow  suit :  to 
Whitman  everything  was  a  miracle — a  miracle  of 
pyrotechnics  at  which  he  whistled  in  amazement  like  a 
schoolboy.  To  the  studious  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  too, 
his  thirty  years  of  life  was  a  quiet  miracle,  "  which  to 
relate  were  not  an  history  but  a  piece  of  poetry,"  this 
calm  but  confident  statement  drawing  from  Sir  Kenelm 
Digb}-  the  facetious  comment  that  thirty  years'  con- 
tinued miracle  should  make  ''  a  notable  romance." 
The  universalists  in  their  guileless  self-revelations  and 


i22      ON  AMIEL  AND  SOME  OTHERS 

their  undiscriniinaling  rhapsodies  stand  Hke  shorn 
and  defenceless  lambs  exposed  to  the  attacks  of  any 
critic  who  decides  to  make  a  meal  of  them.  Fortun- 
ately, few  critics  have  the  heart. 


1916. 


AN  AUTUMN  STROLL* 

On  a  recent  day  in  early  autumn  I  stood  leaning 
against  a  tall  larch  tree,  on  the  edge  of  a  broad  plan- 
tation, in  a  woodland  corner  of  the  North  of  Devon. 
I  had  been  an  indoor  prisoner  for  a  long,  long  time, 
and  this  was  a  first  country  walk.  What  a  blessing  to 
breathe  again  the  sweet,  honey-scented  air !  How 
fresh-looking  those  meadows  below,  how  green  the 
trees  !  For,  autumn  notwithstanding,  the  herbage  had 
just  reached  that  stage  when  it  crowds  all  its  many- 
tinted  greens  and  the  whole  of  its  remaining  vitality 
into  one  last  sunny  day;  then  very  quickly  follow 
death  and  decay. 

Even  now,  a  few  leaves  on  that  sturdy  oak,  solitary 
m  the  field  yonder,  have  turned  to  golden  russet ;  the 
larches,  too,  overhead  are  growing  ragged  and  thm, 
and  as  the  leaves  begin  to  fall  a  few  hardy  cones  that 
have  weathered  one  winter  already  peep  from  their 
summer  bowers  and  prepare  once  more  for  the  blasts. 
Just  in  front,  over  the  hedge  of  thick  blackthorn,  a 
furze  brake — or,  as  Devonshire  folk  would  say,  "vuzz" 
brake — spreads  its  tangled  meshes,  and   I  hear  the 

*  Reprinted  from  Ihe  Countryside. 

123 


124  AN  AUTUMN  STROLL 

rabbits  rustling  and  scuttling  among  the  bushes  as 
though  out  for  a  general  romp ;  up  from  the  valley  on 
the  left  comes  the  rushing  sound  of  running  water, 
and,  far  ahead,  the  plain  is  lost  to  view  in  a  medley  of 
converging  hills.  Plump  on  the  horizon  appear  the 
heath-clad  downs,  their  glowing  purple  clear  and 
luscious  as  the  bloom  on  a  peach. 

In  the  solemnity  and  silence  of  the  hr-wood  I  hnd 
an  analogy  with  the  atmosphere  of  mysterious  repose 
in  some  stately  cathedral,  in  the  midst  of,  yet  apart 
from,  the  vortex  of  busy  life  without.  Into  the  dim 
recesses  of  the  fir-wood  few  sounds  of  natural  life 
make  their  way — except,  perhaps,  the  call  of  a  crow 
passing  over  the  treetops,  or  the  scream  of  a  startled 
jay;  and  these  are  but  momentary.  Presently  I  leave 
the  still  woods  to  pass  tlirough  the  gap  in  the  hedge, 
and  so  enter  the  busy  whirl  of  wild  life  in  the  fields. 
It  is  a  long  v^'ay  down  to  the  little  ivy-covered  bridge 
that  spans  the  river,  so  I  do  not  hurry. 

Here  the  delicate  eyebright  grows  so  thickly  that  I 
cannot  help  but  crush  it  as  I  walk.  Clusters  of  red 
bartsia  and  musk  mallows  crowd  out  the  green  of  a 
grassy  bank.  Near  a  tangle  of  bramble  and  sweet 
briar  the  knapweed  rears  its  head  of  pink  flowerets. 

A  few  steps  further  on,  with  inquisitive  intent,  I 
overturn  a  large  flat  stone  (flat  stones  always  harbour 
something  interesting).  Under  this  one  is  a  nest  of 
black  ants.     Away  they  run,  carrying  their  eggs  into 


AN  AUTUMN  STROLL  125 

the  heart  of  the  nest ;  but — yes,  I  thought  so,  right  in 
the  centre  of  the  principal  doorway  lolls  the  ugly, 
repulsive  form  of  a  devil's  coach-horse,  or,  as  he  is 
sometimes  called,  the  Rove  beetle.  The  busy  ants  find 
him  distinctly  in  the  way,  and  so  they  energetically 
set  to  work  to  shift  the  obstruction.  Two  climb  on  to 
his  head  and  vigorously  gnaw  the  bases  of  his  stout 
antennae,  and  two  others  attack  the  front  pair  of  legs — 
a  leg  apiece !  Another  pinches  the  soft  elongated 
abdomen.  The  effect  on  the  beetle  is  ludicrous.  He 
snaps  his  jaws  like  an  angry  terrier.  Then  he  frantic- 
ally waves  his  "  yard-arms,"  and  eventually,  being 
nipped  in  many  additional  places  by  a  reinforcement, 
he  cocks  his  tail  over  his  back  and  very  reluctantly 
(for  he  has  been  most  comfortably  ensconced)  beats  a 
hasty  retreat.  This  is  a  great  victory  for  the  ants,  as 
the  devil's  coach-horse  is  a  noted  warrior  in  the  insect 
world.  With  renewed  energy  the  ants  recommenced 
their  labours,  and  when  I  re-pass  the  spot  on  my  way 
home  not  an  ant  is  to  be  seen,  for  the  treasures  have 
been  successfully  removed  "downstairs."  I  carefully 
put  the  stone  back  in  its  place. 

Here  is  the  little  bridge  at  last.  It  is  built  for  the 
cattle  to  cross  upon  from  one  meadow  to  the  other 
when  the  stream  is  flooded  with  winter  rains.  During 
the  summer  they  scorn  the  bridge  and  splash  across 
the  water.  Always  a  beautiful  spot,  it  is  never  more 
beautiful  than  in  the  early  autumn ;  moreover,  for  me 


126  AN  AUTUMN  STROLL 

it  has  pleasant  associations.  Up  beyond  the  bridge  is 
a  waterfall,  over  which  the  water  gallops  from  the 
shimmering,  silvery  weir-pool  above  into  the  boulder- 
scattered  shallows  beneath.  Solitude  adds  to  the 
charm.  Indeed,  a  companion's  voice  could  scarce  be 
heard  amidst  the  little  thunder  of  these  dancing 
"falls." 

That  huge  holt  held  an  otter  once,  but  whether  he 
is  there  now  is  doubtful.  Anyway,  if  I  would  see  him, 
I  must  be  up  betimes  in  the  morning;  I  shall  not  see 
him  to-day.  A  green  canopy  of  hazels  and  alders 
smiles  over  all,  and  through  the  interstices  the  sun 
shines,  dappling  the  shady  waters  with  light.  It  was 
in  this  very  stream,  I  recall,  that  I  first  made  acquaint- 
ance with  the  wild  red  deer.  This  is  how  it  was.  The 
staghounds  had  met  in  the  morning  up  at  the  village, 
and,  according  to  custom,  tufters  were  taken  to  a  large 
wood  some  miles  distant,  which,  for  some  unexplained 
reason,  is  always  a  favourite  one  with  the  deer.  I  had 
never  yet  seen  a  wild  red  deer,  so  I  was  anxious  to 
make  the  best  of  my  opportunities.  No  other  horse 
but  "  Shanks'  pony  "  was  available,  and  those  "  in  the 
know  "  told  me  that  the  best  thing  I  could  do,  in  the 
circumstances,  was  to  walk  to  a  certain  bridge,  as  the 
deer,  when  roused,  almost  invariably  came  straight 
down  the  combe  and  entered  an  oak  coppice,  to  the 
left  of  the  high  road  and  adjoining  this  very  bridge. 
I  took  the  advice,  and  saw  something  far  prettier  than 


AN  AUTUMN  STROLL  127 

the  antlered  stag,  with  the  eager  hounds  in  his  wake, 
I  had  been  waiting  patiently  for  upwards  of  two  hours 
on  the  bridge  and  was  engrossed  in  watching  a  silent 
riverside  tragedy — the  capture  of  a  water-vole  by  a 
greedy  heron — when,  treading  softly  round  the  bend 
of  the  stream,  and  advancing  calmly  and  quietly  and 
in  the  fearlessness  of  privacy  and   innocence,   there 
swept    across    my    vision   the    charmingest,    dearest, 
prettiest  little  calf  in  creation.     He  was  a  tiny  fellow 
with  brown  coat  and  shapely  neck,  slender  legs,  and 
hazel  eyes.     Upon  his  lordship's  arrival,  the  heron 
dropped  the  struggling  vole,  and  he  lumbered  away 
and   pitched  on   a  tall  elm;   a  startled  trout  swam 
headlong  down-stream.     The  calf,  small  as  he  was, 
was  making  quite  a  commotion. 

In  the  helter-skelter  in  the  wood  beyond,  probably 
he  and  his  mother  had  been  separated,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  had  to  think  for  himself,  to  act  on 
his  own  initiative.  The  oft-repeated  words  of  the  hind 
his  mother,  that  the  water  carries  no  scent,  seemed 
now  very  valuable  to  him.  He  heard  the  waters 
calling — 

"  I  carry  no  scent,  come  here,  come  here, 
For  I  am  the  friend  of  the  wild  red  deer." 

5h)  down  towards  the  bridge  he  came,  where  I  saw 
him.  But  he  did  not  catch  sight  of  me  for  several 
rninutes,  although  he  seemed  to  scent  me.     He  grew 


128  AN  AUTUMN  STROLL 

fussy  and,  half-pla\'fully,  half-nervously,  browsed  the 
leaves  of  a  nut-trre.  But  he  did  not  eat  them — he 
disdainfully  tossed  them  over  his  head,  as  an  old  stag 
would  a  turnip.  In  jerking  his  head  aloft  he  suddenly 
saw  me !  For  a  moment  he  looked  spellbound.  He 
did  not  move,  nor  did  L  We  looked  straight  into  each 
other's  eyes.  Then  he  blinked  twice  or  thrice,  and 
slowly  came  nearer  !  Had  b.e  passed  below  the  bridge 
I  could  have  touched  him  with  my  hand.  But  I  was 
disappointed,  for  on  moving  my  hand  the  slightest 
bit  downwards  the  little  creature  (now  standing  right 
below  me),  pricked  his  ears,  jumped  lightly  on  to  the 
bank  and  then  trotted  across  the  meadow  into  a  copse, 
where  I  earnestly  hope  he  remained  undisturbed, 

1905.     (Published  IQ06.) 


TWO   SHORT    STORIES 


A  FOOL  AND  A  MAID  ON  LUNDY  ISLAND* 

It  was  the  seventh  day  since  I  came  ashore  on  this 
little  granite  boss  which  stands  up  through  the  waters 
of  the  Bristol  Channel,  and  still  I  could  not  set  to 
work.  My  cabinet  of  stoppered  glass  tubes  for  the 
collections  of  the  Isopoda  and  Thysanura  which  I 
had  intended  to  make  were  still  empty,  my  cork 
setting-boards  for  the  Lepidoptera  still  unpacked. 
The  prime  object  of  my  visit  to  the  island  was  to 
gather  new  facts  for  the  padding  up  of  a  theory  I  had 
framed  in  explanation  of  the  anomalous  land  fauna  of 
this  long  isolated  rock. 

That  little  problem  seemed  childish  enough  beside 
the  all-absorbing  and  incognizable  mystery  which  I 
very  soon  detected  lightly  wreathed  around  its  hollow 
fern-lined  combes  and  split  pmnacles  of  granite  crag. 

A  great  enigma  had  entered  like  a  spirit  into  the 
soul  of  the  island's  beauty  and  made  it  dazzling  and 
perfectly  unintelligible.  Its  magnetic  fascination  had 
trapped  me  within  its  field  and  kept  me  idle  through 
the  summer  days. 

It  was   the  hottest   afternoon   I    had   experienced 

*  Reprinted  from  The  Academy. 


132  A  FOOL  AND  A  MAID 

during  my  stay.  A  great  sheet  of  liquid  blue  ran  out 
across  the  channel  and  in  the  haze  of  distance  bent 
back,  returning  again  as  the  blue  vault  overhead. 
The  head  of  a  bull  seal  rose  through  the  sea-blue,  that 
deep  mystery  of  blue,  down  in  the  cove  300  feet  below. 
I  could  just  make  him  out  with  the  help  of  my 
binoculars.     He  quickly  disappeared. 

The  sky-blue  was  so  transparent  that  one  might 
reasonably  have  expected  to  be  able  to  see  through  to 
Almighty  God  Himself  sitting  on  the  throne,  but  it 
was  unrelieved  by  any  object  save  the  flecks  of  a  few 
gulls'  wings  beating  up  from  the  sea. 

The  island  was  becalmed.  Not  a  puff  of  wind 
stirred  to  swing  the  sea-pinks  or  to  tap  the  line  against 
the  flagstaff  on  Semaphore  Hill.  Red  Admiral 
butterflies  flaunted  pink-barred  wings  to  the  sun,  and 
large  green  beetles  dropped  at  random  into  the  fern. 
The  air  was  turgid,  inspissated  almost  by  the  con- 
tinuous heat,  yet  the  calm  was  not  that  of  inaction 
but  the  intensification  of  motion  of  the  "sleeping" 
top.    Nature  was  in  dynamic  equilibrium. 

The  silent  brilliance  of  the  scene  was  menacing.  It 
was  more  terrible  than  a  thunderstorm  because  more 
unintelligible. 

Flashes  of  quartz  and  felspar  crystals  shot  from  the 
granite  through  the  eyeball  like  streaks  of  pain. 
Somewhere  up  in  the  blue,  a  lark  sang  on  and  on 
ceaselessly,  as  if  in  a  magic  trance.    It  maddened  me 


A  FOOL  AND  A  MAID  133 

at  last,  and  I  longed  to  rip  out  its  heart  and  read  the 
cypher  of  that  unintelligible  song.  No  other  sound 
was  audible  but  the  whisper  of  "mystery,  mystery" 
coming  up  from  the  sea  waves  on  the  beach. 

Such  a  mystic  trinity  of  sea,  sky,  and  rock  would 
have  strangled  thought  even  in  Spinoza,  and  excluded 
from  its  communion  Wordsworth's  divining  soul.  A 
great  vascular  system  ramified  through  Puffin  Island 
and  distributed  to  every  blade  of  grass  a  mystery 
steeped  in  ichor.  I  could  hear  the  pulse  of  its  arteries 
in  the  song  of  that  lark,  and  seemed  to  hear  the  beat 
of  its  heart  coming  up  through  the  ground  on  which 
I  stood. 

A  large  white  butterfly  nestled  in  the  heather  away 
on  my  right.  It  was  the  artist,  in  her  white  gown, 
painting  the  Knight  Templar  Rock.  I  wondered 
what  impression  she  could  squeeze  out  of  the  inscrut- 
able silence  of  that  grey  granite  stack.  She  had 
always  appeared  to  be  profoundly  pleased,  I  thought, 
with  her  Lundy  work,  and  certainly  none  of  the 
islanders  were  troubled  with  the  sensations  of  mystery 
which  fell  to  my  lot.  And  why  should  they  ?  The 
circumstances,  after  all,  were  nothing  but  a  fine  day 
on  a  beautiful  island,  with  what  the  guide-books  call 
"  rugged  scenery  of  great  grandeur."  But  the  mystery 
could  not  be  shaken  off.  I  met  with  it  afresh  in  the 
next  combe,  where  a  boulder-scattered  green  slope  ran 
almost  down  to  the  sea.    Vast  multitudes  of  uncanny. 


134  A  FOOL  AND  A  MAID 

owl-faced  puffins  had  collected  there,  and  stood  about 
on  the  rocks  or  at  the  entrance  to  their  nesting 
burrows.  Overhead  flew  a  gyrating  circle  of  these 
winged  goblins,  and  the  papillotance  of  the  sunlight 
played  across  the  serried  ranks  of  the  lesser  sprites — 
bluebells,  sea  pinks,  and  red  robins.  Deep,  un- 
plumbed  silence  prevailed,  for  the  puffin  has  no  voice. 
Only  occasionally,  could  be  heard  the  whish  of  the 
wings  of  a  passing  bird. 

The  irresistible  magnetism  of  the  scene  would  have 
aroused  the  most  sluggish  curiosity  and  yet  defied 
the  most  intense.  I  was  tired  after  my  long  walk  in 
the  sun,  and  mentally  fatigued  as  well.    I  slept  at  last. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  I  awoke.  For  a 
while,  the  dreams  of  sleep  passed  on,  uninterrupted, 
into  those  of  my  waking  hours.  A  yellow  new  moon 
overhead  was  carved  into  an  Egyptian  hieroglyph. 
The  stars  shone  out  around  her;  they  were  the 
polished  tips  of  a  thousand  spears  all  pointing  down 
at  me.  A  bank  of  clotted  mist  caught  in  the  dark 
foliage  of  a  phalanx  of  Scots  firs,  whose  giant  forms 
stood  up  one  behind  the  other  at  the  top  of  the  slope, 
like  a  troop  of  bad  angels,  and,  like  the  whiteness  of 
the  bitten  lip  of  hate,  the  white  sea  breakers  were  just 
visible  through  the  thickening  fog.  The  sea  itself 
was  hidden  from  view. 

Immense  wreaths  of  mist  coiled  around  the 
columns,   pinnacles,   and   minarets   of  granite,  time- 


A  FOOL  AND  A  MAID  135 

sculptured  and  grey.  The  mist  magnified  and  trans- 
formed. The  island  changed  into  a  great  temple 
pushing  up  into  the  clouds  with  its  superscription 
writ  large — 

Deo  Ignoto. 

I  craved  for  the  intellectual  satisfaction  of  final  and 
complete  knowledge.  I  made  an  effort  to  reach  the 
Deity  as  I  looked  out  once  again  with  a  knife-like 
scrutiny  on  the  sea,  and  rocks  and  sky — all  those 
material  objects  which  muffled  and  obscured  the 
Real  behind  them.  No  reply  came,  and  even  as  I 
looked,  the  face  of  Nature  hardened  into  petrification. 
Its  stone  bruised  the  heart.  I  turned  my  Gorgon's 
head  away  towards  home,  feeling  how  terrible  it  was 
to  be  alive,  to  be  taking  part,  willy-nilly,  in  the  great 
mystery  play,  into  Death  itself.  What  a  grand 
optimism  was  that  which  let  men  eat,  drink,  and 
carouse.  Rather  would  I  have  expected  them  to  stand 
at  the  street  corners  discussing  their  common  doom  or 
to  fret  their  hearts  away  like  beasts  tortured  in  a 
puzzle  box. 

I  recalled  how  I  had  scoffed  at  the  words  of  my 
friend  Kinnaird  at  lunch  that  day,  when  he  said, 
looking  towards  his  wife,  "  The  only  perfection  of 
which  man  is  capable  is  not  knowledge,  but  love." 
Then,  smiling  at  me,  "  Give  up  your  search,  Para- 
celsus, and  take  a  wife,"  and  I  had  scoffed  again. 
"  Whose  wife  ?"  said  I. 


136  A  FOOL  AND  A  MAID 

I  was  within  50  yards  of  the  Knight  Templar  Rock 
when  I  noticed  a  mysterious  whiteness  shining 
through  the  thin  mist  which  capped  its  top.  The  few 
scattered  rays  of  the  early  morning  light  were  directed 
towards  that  desolate  perch,  I  paused  and  looked. 
Was  it  up  there  on  the  cold  grey  stone  that  I  was 
going  to  find  the  noumenon,  and  final  rest  from  the 
hounds  of  reason  and  curiosity  which  had  dogged 
my  steps  ?  Or  was  it  a  sign,  a  revelation,  implanting 
the  germ  of  a  new  philosophy  of  life,  which  I  so  badly 
needed  ?    I  soon  would  know. 

A  strong  impulse  sent  me  running  across  the  heath 
towards  the  naked  outcrop  of  granite  stone.  Sick 
with  excitement,  I  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stack, 
assured  that  some  sort  of  consolation  awaited  me 
above.  The  rock  goes  up  for  40  feet.  I  scaled  the 
steepest  side,  forgetting  in  my  haste  the  steps  cut  out 
on  the  other  side.  I  looked  over  the  edge  of  the  top 
and  across  at  the  figure  of  a  young  girl  lying  out  still 
on  the  flat,  lichened  surface  of  the  rock.  She  was 
clothed  in  a  white  muslin  gown. 

On  hands  and  knees  I  crept  over  to  her  side  and  lit 
a  match.  Before  the  third  match  in  succession 
flickered  and  went  out  she  opened  her  eyes  and 
caught  me  watching  the  beauty  of  her  face. 

I  knew  then  wherein  the  revelation  lay,  not  in 
knowledge,  but  in  love. 

Even  without  the  large  stain  of  Vandyke  brown  on 


A  FOOL  AND  A  MAID  137 

her  small  sunburnt  hand,  I  should  have  recognized 
the  person  of  the  artist  who,  for  fear  of  stepping  over 
the  cliffs  in  the  fog,  had  bravely  decided  to  remain  on 
the  rock  until  it  cleared  away.    There  she  fell  asleep. 

As  we  entered  the  farmstead  at  the  south  end  of 
the  island,  day  came  "like  a  mighty  river  flowing 
in."  The  fog  cleared  and  the  air  freshened.  Already 
I  saw  a  change  on  the  face  of  Nature.  I  had  cast  my 
mental  slough. 


1909. 


HOW  TOM  SNORED  ON  HIS  BRIDAL  NIGHT 

They  were  married  at  Bristol  where  Mabel  was  a 
laundress  and  Tom  the  boxing  instructor  at  the  camp. 

After  the  ceremony  they  went  straight  home  to  her 
mother's  little  cottage  in  Devon,  where  a  small  group 
stood  at  the  door,  threw  confetti,  and  gave  a  short 
self-conscious  cheer.  A  loud  self-assertive  whoop 
from  Bert  Vowles  was  received  with  a  stern  glance 
from  Tom  as  he  stepped  nimbly  out  of  the  cab  before 
greeting  his  new  relatives.  He  bestowed  a  specially 
friendly  smile  and  a  brotherly  kiss  on  Lucy,  Mabel's 
youngest  sister,  a  pretty  girl  in  delicate  health,  whose 
tragedy  was  to  carry  her  head  permanently  drawn 
down  on  one  side  towards  the  shoulder  like  a  kink  in 
the  stalk  of  a  flower. 

Now  Lucy  admired  Tom,  but  simply  loathed  Bert, 
and  Tom's  glance  of  disapproval  at  the  latter  was  by 
no  means  lost  on  her.  It  was  just  like  Bert  to  shout 
louder  than  any  one  else :  she  did  not  know  why  he 
had  turned  up  at  all — after  all,  he  had  only  just 
begun  to  walk  out  with  Madge — wretched  little  tailor 
chap   with    pimples   on   his   face   (Madge   gave   him 

139 


140  HOW  TOM  SNORED 

ointment  to  put  on  thcni,  and  in  return  he  was  often 
busy  tailoring  her  skirts).  Whereas  Tom  was  a 
soldier  with  two  wound  stripes,  a  boxer,  and  runner- 
up  for  the  champion  featherweight. 

They  were  quickly  hurried  in  to  view  the  "  break- 
fast "  spread — "  Mum's  sponges  and  jellies "  and  a 
three-decker  cake  the  food-controller  was  easily  cir- 
cumvented) laid  out  in  the  kitchen  on  a  big  trestle 
table  by  Madge,  who  had  been  parlourmaid  at  the 
Hall  and  knew  how  to  fold  the  serviettes  in  a 
wonderful  manner,  unknown  outside  high  circles. 
Through  the  open  window  came  the  sound  of  Madge's 
excited  giggle — "  Oh,  do  let  go  of  me,  I  shall  scream." 
On  the  garden  seat  Bert  was  tickling,  squeezing,  and 
giggling  in  a  gross  indulgence  in  all  the  delights  of 
rural  courtship.  Lucy  glanced  in  annoyance  towards 
Tom  who  looked  back  sympathetically.  They  under- 
stood one  another  fine  she  thought — yes,  it  really  was 
a  shame  that  Mum  could  allow  that  sort  of  thing  to 
go  on. 

After  the  ceremony  of  cutting  the  cake,  and  when 
Gaffer  Laramy's  appetite  had  eased  off,  ruminating, 
he  remarked  to  the  bride  :  "  Well,  my  dear,  I  suppose 
you  found  the  ceremony  a  little  awkward,  never 
'aving  been  in  a  Catholic  place  of  worship  before." 
"  Oh,  I  got  on  alright,  Mr.  Laramy ;  you  see  I  am  only 
learning  the  religion.  'Tiz  a  difficult  religion  to  learn 
however,"  replied  Mabel  with  phlegm.     "  You'll  get 


HOW  TOM  SNORED  141 

into  the  way  of  it,"  said  Tom  encouragingly.  Gaffer 
pursued :  "  Well,  Mrs.  Cox,  I  suppose  all  your 
daughters  be  fixed  up  now,  eh  ?" 

He  had  forgotten  Lucy,  but  Lucy  did  not  mind — 
she  was  used  to  being  forgotten,  and  thought  out 
of  the  runnmg  m  everything.  No  one  ever  thought  of 
her  as  like  other  girls,  but  only  as — "  poor  Lucy." 

Tom  looked  up  brightly  and  said  to  Mrs.  Cox : 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  there's  Lucy,  you'll  lose  her  yet." 
Mrs.  Cox  sighed  heavily  and  whispered  to  the  Best 
Man,  a  stranger,  "  Afflicted  from  birth."  "  So  ?"  said 
he  quietly,  "  a  pretty  lass  for  all  that,  Mrs.  Cox." 

Lucy  knew  what  her  mother  was  saying,  she  always 
said  it,  and  she  always  sighed  as  if  it  were  her  own 
affliction  much  more  than  Lucy's.  With  no  other 
intention  than  to  appear  amiable  and  knowing  Bert 
winked  and  said :  "  I  rather  think  Alfred  West  is 
sweet  on  Lucy."  Lucy  flushed,  and  there  was  a  dead 
silence  for  a  moment  or  two,  even  Bert  ceasing  to 
frolic  with  Madge's  hands  under  the  table  in  a 
genuine  puzzlement  at  the  effect  he  had  produced. 
Alfred  West  was  the  village  hunchback. 

Presently  Tom,  indignant :  "  Why  aren't  you  in 
the  army  ?"  almost  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Why  aren't 
you  dead  ?"  "  They  won't  have  me,"  Bert  replied. 
"  I'm  not  surprised,"  snapped  Lucy.  "  Tut,  tut," 
murmured  Gaffer. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  make  a  boxer  of  him, 


142  HOW  TOM  SNORED 

Tom  ?"  Lucy  inquired.  Tom  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  1  expect  you'd  knock  some  stuffmg  out  of  him," 
pursued  Lucy.  "  Oh,  some  stuffing  would  have  to  be 
knocked  into  him  first,"  muttered  Tom  sotto  voce. 

Mabel  remonstrated  :  "  Oh,  Tom."  Madge  pouted, 
and  Mrs.  Cox,  to  clear  the  air  a  little,  got  up  and 
asked  brightly  :  "  Now,  who  is  going  to  help  me  shift 
out  the  furniture  for  the  dancing  ?" 

They  danced  till  after  midnight,  Mabel  and  Tom 
leading  off  and  receiving,  especially  from  Gaffer,  all 
the  admiration  they  deserved  as  a  handsome  young 
couple. 

Then  came  singing.  Gaffer  Laramy  presented  his 
small  repertoire,  reserved  for  high  days  and  holidays 
and  jollifications  at  the  Green  Dragon — "Won't  you 
come  and  veed  the  vowls  ?" 

"  Gam !  No  wonder  Gaffer  is  always  singing  that 
toon,"  cried  Bert.  "  I  counted  twenty  chicken  when 
I  was  down  by  his  fence  yesterday — they  must  cost 
summat  in  corn." 

The  company  laughed  and  cunning  Gaffer 
chuckled  :  "  Well,  I  reckon  you'll  be  glad  to  sing  that 
toon  when  you're  married  and  got  a  brood."  Loud 
laughter  greeted  this  sally,  and  Bert  had  to  subside. 

Lucy  could  not  dance  because  of  her  "  affliction," 
but  she  sang  very  well,  and  so  did  Tom,  and  Lucy 
accompanied  him.  Tom  behaved,  she  thought,  in  a 
most    genteel    manner,    carefully    turning    over    the 


HOW  TOM  SNORED  143 

leaves,  and  Tom,  looking  down  at  her  delicate  hands 
and  nimble  fingers,  thought  to  himself  more  than 
once — "  What  a  pearl  of  a  girl !     What  a  pity.  .  .  ." 

She  was  a  year  younger  and  Mabel  three  years 
older  than  he  was. 

They  so  enjoyed  their  music  together  that  they 
went  on  long  after  the  appreciation  of  their  audience 
was  exhausted  and  general  conversation  had  been 
resumed.  Mabel  sat  by  the  piano  and  fidgetted.  Then 
Lucy  suddenly  got  up,  walked  to  the  door,  called  and 
beckoned  to  Tom,  and  took  him  outside  into  the 
parlour.  She  had  been  dying  to  tell  him  all  the 
evening,  and  now  was  the  chance.  Mysteriously 
drawing  from  her  pocket  a  little  package — a  silver 
matchbox,  she  said :  "  I  wanted  to  give  you  a  little 
something  for  yourself." 

Tom  was  delighted;  in  high  spirits  he  seized  his 
sister-in-law  round  the  waist,  and  was  kissing  her  on 
the  lips,  when  the  kitchen  door  opened,  and  Mabel 
appeared.  "  What  are  you  two  doing  out  here,  kissing 
in  the  moonlight  ?"  Tom  sprang  from  Lucy  to  his 
bride,  exclaiming :  "  Look,  isn't  this  a  lovely  present 
from  Lucy."  "How  lovely,"  Mabel  agreed,  and  then 
added  at  once :  "  I'll  give  you  a  cigarette-box  to 
match  it — but  I  say  Tom,  come  on,  they  want  us  to 
do  that  dance  together  again."  And  they  went  off  up 
the  passage  doing  a  two-step,  what  time  Lucy  walked 
slowly  behind. 


144  HOW  TOM  SNORED 

"  I  thought  the  httlc  lass  had  'iirned  off  with  your 
man  altogether,"  said  Gaffer  on  their  re-entry.  "  I 
dessay  she'd  Hke  to,"  Mabel  answered,  smiling 
proudly. 

Later  on,  when  it  was  past  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  Lucy  found  herself  sitting  beside  Mabel. 
"  Did  Tom  really  like  the  matchbox  ?"  she  asked 
eagerly.  "  Oh,  my  dear,  he's  been  talking  of 
nothing  else  ever  since."  There  was  a  flavour  of 
sarcasm  in  the  exaggeration,  but  Lucy  did  not 
notice  it. 

Mrs.  Cox  brought  the  festivities  to  an  end  by 
producing  her  famous  elder-berry  wine,  and  while 
Gaffer  freely  toasted  bride,  bridegroom,  and  their 
future  offspring  in  little  speeches  of  a  vinous  streak 
and  flecked  with  harmless  Rabelaisian  pleasantries, 
the  bride  herself  slipped  quietly  up  to  the  bridal 
chamber,  which  Lucy  had  lavishly  decorated  with 
primroses  and  violets. 

Gaffer  patted  Tom  on  the  shoulder  as  he  thumped 
out  to  the  door  with  his  ash  stick  : 

"Well,  Sonny,  I  reckon  you  be  eager  to  climb 
timbern  'eel  to  the  Blanket  Vair  as  the  zaying  is." 
(Everyone  laughed  nervously).  "  Do  your  dooty " 
(more  nervous  laughter  and  Tom  thought,  "I  wish 
the  old  blighter  would  buck  up  and  clear  out "),  "  and 
remember  Noove  Chappel "  (no  one  knew  what  he 
meant,  but  everyone  laughed  to  relieve  the  tension,  al; 


HOW  TOM  SNORED  145 

this  dramatic  juncture).     In  the  room  above,  Mabel 
awaited  her  lover. 

Gaffer  went  stumping  off  up  the  road,  and  then  a 
strange  thing  happened — a  portent.  Up  to  then  no 
one  in  the  village  had  ever  heard  him  give  utterance 
to  anything  but  the  invitation  to  feed  his  fowls,  but 
now  he  burst  into  a  new  song  with  the  refrain  : 

"  I  don't  care 
Whethci-  it's  snowing  or  blowing 
I'm  going — 

For  I  only  got  married  this  morning 
And  I  must  be  home  to  night." 

To  the  tune  of  which  Epithalamion  Tom,  without 
saying  good-night  to  anyone,  not  even  to  Lucy,  slowly 
climbed  the  stairs,  accidentally  springing  a  mouse- 
trap in  a  corner  of  the  landing  as  he  did  so.  He 
jumped.    Bert,  below,  sniggered. 

Lucy,  not  being  at  all  disposed  to  witness  any  more 
of  Bert's  horseplay  (he  had  blacked  his  face  and 
dressed  up  as  a  girl,  and  was  trying  to  detain  the 
sleepy  company  by  a  continuation  of  his  gambols), 
presently  in  an  abstracted  air  followed  Tom's  footsteps 
upstairs  and  absentmindedly  walked  straight  into  the 
room  the  couple  were  occupying,  where  she  saw  Mabel 
sitting  up  in  bed  with  her  arms  around  her  knees; 
Tom  had  fastened  a  bunch  of  violets  (Lucy's  violets) 
in  her  nightie  and  was  sitting  on  the  bed  taking  off 
his  Army  boots. 

10 


146  HOW  TOM  SNORED 

"  Oh !  1  forgot,"  said  Lucy,  retiring  in  confusion 
just  as  Mum  called  up  tlie  stairs  in  horror-stricken 
tones,  "  Lucy,  Lucy,  remember  you're  sleeping  in  the 
spare  room  to-night." 

"  How  stupid  of  me,"  she  reflected,  while  undressing 
and  getting  into  bed.  But  that  night  her  life  was 
turning,  turning  so  fast  amid  a  crowd  of  strange 
emotions  she  scarcely  knew  what  she  did.  She  was 
barely  aware  that  she  had  pulled  the  bed  round  so 
that  the  tragic  blemish  on  her  neck  was  turned 
towards  the  wall  away  from  tlie  door,  and  she  was 
certainly  unconscious  why  she  had  carefully  placed  a 
bunch  of  violets  in  her  nightie  and  was  sitting  up  in 
bed  with  her  arms  round  her  knees,  just  like  Mabel. 
Certainly  it  was  in  no  spirit  of  deliberate  rivalry. 
She  wanted  to  convince  herself  and  she  succeeded. 
.  .  .  Self-confidence  was  a  new  and  very  welcome 
experience  to  her,  thanks  to  Tom's  attentions.  But 
why  didn't  he  say  good-night  ?  There  were  such  a 
lot  of  things  she  wanted  to  say  to  him  and  they 
understood  each  other  flne.  .  .  .  She  wanted  to 
thank  him  for  siding  with  her  against  that  Bert.  She 
did  so  want  to  kiss  him  good-night.  Lucy's  warm 
heart  often  tempted  her  to  kiss  people  if  they  were 
kind  to  her,  because  it  was  so  difficult  to  express  in 
words  all  she  felt.  Had  he  really  been  talking  about 
her  matchbox  all  the  evening?  Perhaps  he  really 
meant  her  to  stay  awhile  just  now  when  he  said,  "  Oh 


HOW  TOM  SNORED  147 

come  in,  come  in."    How  stupid  she  was  to  come  out 
in  such  a  hurry  ! 

On  the  impulse  she  suddenly  thumped  on  the 
dividing  wall  between  the  two  rooms  and  a  moment 
later  Mabel  appeared,  candle  in  hand,  and  beheld  her 
similacrum  sitting  up  in  the  bed  before  her.  At  once 
she  was  furious.  "  Whatever  is  the  matter  ?"  she 
cried.  "  Are  you  ill  ?"  Somehow,  in  her  mental  pre- 
occupation with  Tom,  Lucy  had  anticipated  no  one 
but  the  chivalrous  Thomas  by  her  bedside.  Confused, 
she  mumbled  that  she  only  wanted  to  ask  Tom  a 
question.  "  My  dear  child,"  said  Mabel,  "  you  are 
making  yourself  quite  ridiculous  !  You  don't  think 
Tom  cares  anything  about  you.  He  only  pities  you. 
For  goodness'  sake  don't  be  a  silly  little  fool,"  and  she 
flung  out  of  the  room.  For  ten  minutes  afterwards, 
Lucy  could  hear  a  geyser  of  chatter  from  Mabel  who 
was  one  of  those  girls  silent  in  company  but  astonish- 
ingly garrulous  in  a  tete-a-tete.  Tom's  low  chuckles 
were  Lucy's  coup  de  grace.  The  storm  in  her  breast 
was  so  loud  she  never  heard  her  mother  till  she  was 
standing  at  the  bedside,  embrocation  bottle  in  hand, 
and  saying :  "  You  shouldn't  disturb  them,  my  dear, 
they  don't  want  to  be  disturbed,  call  me  if  you  want 
anything." 

Lucy  submitted  to  her  mother's  ministrations  with- 
out protest,  hoping  thereby  she  would  leave  the  room 
the  sooner.     Mrs.  Cox  bade  her  good-night  and  be  a 


148  HOW  TOM  SNORED 

good  girl  and  if  she  wanted  anything  to  call  her.  She 
did  not  notice  that  Lucy  was  in  tears.  That  was 
always  the  case — she  never  noticed  anything — she 
had  never  noticed  that  Lucy  was  now  a  woman.  She 
never  noticed  this  frail  bark  with  hatches  open  labour- 
ing on  towards  her  predestined  storms  in  those  wild 
Biscayan  latitudes  between  the  ages  of  eighteen  and 
twenty-five.  "  Poor  Mrs.  Cox,"  as  she  was  known  in 
the  village  on  Lucy's  account,  was  a  pitiless  old 
woman  simply  from  absence  of  imagination.  She 
was  cruel  because  she  lacked  understanding,  for  the 
most  part  her  heart  was  quite  discounted  by  her  head. 

That  night  Lucy's  heart  knew  its  own  bitterness 
and  she  swallowed  her  cupful  to  the  lees.  M.  Duhamel 
writes  that  the  human  being  suffers  in  his  flesh 
solitarily.  How  much  more  solitary  and  inaccessible 
is  the  human  being  in  mental  anguish  !  How  was  it 
possible,  short  of  a  miracle,  for  one  to  be  found  in  that 
Devon  village  with  the  imagination  capable  of  even 
distantly  approaching  Lucy  in  her  pain  ?  No  one  had 
ever  come  near  her.  She  was  alone.  A  black  eagle 
had  pounced  on  her  when  a  child  and  carried  her  off 
to  an  inaccessible  ledge  in  the  mountains.  There  she 
remained  listening  to  friends  below,  faintly  murmur- 
ing as  they  passed  on  with  automatic  precision : 
"  Poor  Lucy." 

No  one,  she  reflected  bitterly,  took  the  trouble  to 
understand.    She  was  quite  unconscious  of  it,  but  she 


HOW  TOM  SNORED  149 

really  hated  her  mother  who  never  seemed  to  realize 
that  Lucy  ever  wanted  anything  but  the  embrocation. 
Tom  was  the  first  person  she  had  fancied  who  per- 
fectly understood  her,  but  now  ...  ah  yes,  they  had 
all  got  used  to  her  and  her  trouble,  but  she  was  far 
from  getting  used  to  herself. 

The  dawn  was  stealing  in  through  the  lattice,  but 
still  she  did  not  sleep.  Down  in  the  "  Bottom  "  there 
was  a  pond  by  which  she  often  lingered  under  the 
firm  impression  that  there  on  its  bottom  would  be  her 
ultimate  resting-place.  The  water  was  so  clear  and 
clean  and  sweet,  and  blue  forget-me-nots  grew  round 
the  edge.  She  thought  about  it  now.  .  .  .  Why  not  ? 
Nobody  would  care.  .  .  .  On  the  instant,  the  long 
period  of  sad  reverie  was  brought  to  an  end  by  a 
loud  snore,  and  then  another  and  another.  It  was 
Tom  in  the  next  room. 

Life  is  a  queer  mixture — grave  and  gay,  serious  and 
ridiculous — all  woven  together  in  a  piece — so  Lucy 
used  to  reflect  when,  in  later  years,  she  recalled  how 
once  Tom's  chuckles  almost  drove  her  to  suicide  and 
how  once  Tom's  snores  saved  her  from  that  tragic 
end.  But  the  fact  of  the  matter  is,  that  snoring  is 
ridiculous,  especially  when  overheard  through  the 
walls  of  a  bedroom,  and  the  vision  of  a  lethargic 
sprawling  figure  with  mouth  open  and  dead  to  the 
world  never  fails  to  produce  a  contemptuous  if  in- 
dulgent grin.     Even  Lucy  smiled.     And  her  eager 


150  HOW  TOM  SNORED 

heart  felt  there  must  be  something  a  Httle  chilHng  in 
the  complete  detachment  and  indifference  of  a  beloved 
figure  unconscious  and  snoring.  It  made  her  question 
whether  all  folk,  married  and  single  alike,  are  not  in 
the  last  analysis  alone — sea-girt  isles,  often  storm- 
swept  and  inaccessible. 

Anyhow,  Tom's  snores  were  prose  not  poetry ;  in  her 
mind  now,  he  had  doffed  his  shining  armour  for  a 
nightshirt :  she  was  inclined  to  think  that  after  all 
there  was  nothing  so  very  romantic  and  mysterious 
about  married  life.  For  herself,  she  certainly  could 
net  sleep  in  the  same  room  with  someone  who  snored. 
Madge  snored,  so  she  had  to  sleep  with  her  mother. 

It  was  now  a  beautifully  cool,  fresh  spring  morning, 
and  several  Great  Tits  were  calling  "  Beeju,  beeju " 
from  the  apple-tree.  Although  she  had  not  slept  a 
wink  all  night  Lucy  jumped  out  of  bed,  went  down, 
and  before  getting  the  breakfast  rambled  through  the 
orchard,  yellow  with  daffodils,  down  to  the  stile  in 
the  meadow  and  back.  Then  she  took  two  new-laid 
eggs,  toast,  and  butter  on  a  tray  up  to  Tom  and 
Mabel — greeting  their  sleepy  countenances  with  a 
cheerful  "  Good-morning,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stamper. 
Remember  Noove  Chappel,  you  know."  Mabel  was 
not  a  little  puzzled  at  her  happy  contented  face. 
Lucy  surprised  herself  a  little,  but  the  glamour  of  the 
night  being  over  she  felt  in  her  heart  no  envy  of  those 
two  on  that  bright  spring  morning. 


ESSAYS    IN    NATURAL    HISTORY 

"  It  is  holier  to  examine  than  behave." — Brehm 


SPALLANZANI* 

Sfallanzani's  dates  (1729- 1799)  form  the  tons  et 
origo  of  many  important  departments  of  biological 
research.  The  genius  of  Spallanzani  touched  and 
adorned  so  many  things  that  it  is  impossible  to  avoid 
coming  constantly  upon  his  work.  But  the  remark- 
able personality  of  the  man  behind  the  name  will 
possibly  come  as  a  surprise  to  English  workers  who, 
if  tempted  for  once  in  a  way  to  make  an  incursion 
into  the  field  of  biography,  shall  find  their  curiosity 
in  this  instance  amply  justified. 

There  is  a  large  Italian  literature  about  him.t  Even 
in  his  own  country  and  among  his  own  friends,  he 
always  was,  and  still  is,  regarded  as  a  prophet  and  a 
great  man,  so  that  his  fellow-countrymen  have  not 
thought  it  superfluous  to  study  his  life  and  character 
in  the  minutest  details,  but  in  the  small  compass  of 
this  article  only  the  bald  facts  can  be  given. 

His  personality  is  striking.    The  Abbe  Spallanzani 

*  Reprinted  from  Science  Progress. 

t  See  "  Lazzaro  Spallanzani,"  Pavia,  1871  (Gihelli)  and 
"  L'Abbate  Spallanzani  a  Pavia,"  Milan,  1901  (Pavesi,  Societa 
Italiana  di  Scienze  Naturali  e  Museo  Civico  di  Stovia  Naturale 
di  Milano,  Vol.  VI.,  Fasc.  III). 

153 


154  SPALLANZANI 

was  a  priest  and  a  savant,  although  in  fact  he  pos- 
sessed none  of  the  characteristics  one  is  accustomed 
by  convention  to  associate  with  those  two  vocations. 
Greedy,  ambitious,  arrogant,  and  at  times  violent, 
Spallanzani  was  a  bull-moose  type  of  man  who 
charged  through  life  with  his  head  down.  There 
were  many  obstacles  to  his  success,  but  he  brushed 
them  aside;  he  had  many  detractors,  but  he  pinned 
them  down.  To  his  opponents  in  biological  con- 
troversy, he  never  expressed  any  flabby  desire  to 
agree  to  differ.  They  were  attacked  with  acerbity, 
and  whether  right  or  wrong  he  emerged  triumphant. 
False  modesty  was  not  one  of  the  Abbe's  faults. 
When,  as  a  young  man  conscious  of  his  own  genius, 
he  ventured  upon  a  criticism  of  the  illustrious  Buffon, 
he  did  so  with  a  sardonic  expression  of  his  own 
incompetence.  He  never  showed  the  smallest  inclina- 
tion to  mislead  his  contemporaries  into  giving  him 
less  than  his  deserts.  He  set  out  to  be  second  to 
none — not  even  in  salary — and  he  succeeded  and  was 
proud  of  it. 

There  is  indeed  a  gamey  flavour  about  Spallanzani, 
and  it  is  easy  to  understand  his  popularity  among  his 
students.  They  must  have  found  it  invariably  safe  to 
shelter  themselves,  their  hopes,  and  ambitions  within 
the  shadow  of  a  personality  so  mountainous  as  his. 

Lazzaro  Spallanzani  was  born  at  Scandiano,  in 
Modena,  on  the  loth  of  January,  1729.    His  father,  an 


SPALL  ANZANI  155 

advocate,  gave  him  his  first  lessons,  and  subsequently 
he  passed  into  the  Jesuit  College  at  Reggio,  with  the 
intention,  we  are  told,  of  entering  that  body.  But,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  passed  into  tlie  University  of 
Bologna,  and  thus  entered  upon  the  critical  phase  in 
his  intellectual  development,  for  his  celebrated  cousin, 
Laura  Bassi,  was  Professor  of  Physics  at  Bologna, 
and  it  is  believed  that  her  influence  was  the  principal 
factor  in  determining  his  taste  for  natural  philosophy. 

By  the  year  1758  he  had  become  Professor  of  Logic 
and  Geometry  in  the  University  of  Reggio,  and  in 
1760  he  was  translated  to  Modena  to  hold  the  Chair 
of  Physics.  The  youthful  Professor  had  already  made 
a  reputation  when  in  1769  he  became  the  first  to  hold 
the  newly-appointed  Chair  of  Natural  History  in  the 
University  of  Pavia,  which,  at  the  instigation  of 
Maria  Theresa,  then  ruling  over  Austrian  Lombardy, 
was  being  re-organized  and  re-equipped. 

He  inaugurated  his  series  of  lectures  with  "  an 
elegant  Latin  discourse  "  on  the  controversy  between 
the  Preformists  and  the  Epigenists.  Buffon,  whose 
flights  of  imagination  were  well  calculated  to  arouse 
antipathy  in  a  hard-headed  and  prudent  investigator 
like  Spallanzani,  was  propagating  his  doctrine  of 
"  organic  molecules " — a  fantastic  Buff"onesque  em- 
broidery of  the  preformation  hypothesis  tending 
towards  epigenesis.  Spallanzani,  an  orthodox  be- 
liever in  the  preformation  faith,  mistook  it  for  sheer 


156  SPALLANZANI 

epigenesis  {vide  "  Dissertations  relative  to  the  Natural 
History  of  Animals  and  Vegetables,"  Vol.  II.,  p.  i6o, 
London,  1784),  then  accounted  a  heresy,  and,  wielding 
that  damaging  epithet  "  imaginative,"  made  battery 
and  assault  on  the  handsome,  speculative  Frenchman. 
"  Plus  9a  change,  plus  c'est  la  meme  chose."  The 
controversy  in  a  more  developed  form  continues  still, 
and  it  looked  at  one  time,  before  Roux's  initial  experi- 
ments -with,  the  frog's  egg  were  carried  further,  as  if 
the  philosophic  attitude  of  Spallanzani  and  his  sup- 
porters might  prove  to  be  sound. 

More  than  one  of  Buffon's  claims  were  attacked 
with  spirit  by  Spallanzani,  who  placed  over  against 
Buffon's  interesting  speculations  his  own  still  more 
interesting  facts  obtained  under  conditions  of  rigid 
experiment  —  notably  his  work  with  hermetically 
sealed  flasks  in  which  he  showed  no  life  developed  if 
they  were  subjected  to  powerful  heat.  Spallanzani's 
methods  were  an  enormous  advance  upon  those  pre- 
viously used,  although  they  by  no  means  set  the 
matter  at  rest.  The  old  bone  of  Spontaneous  Genera- 
tion has  since  been  dug  up  many  times  and  chewed. 
And  it  is  not  buried  yet.* 

Of  course,  Spallanzani  made  mistakes — indeed  to 
his  credit  it  might  be  said  if  the  ancient  adage  be 
true.     In  those  days  it  used  to  be  thought  by  some 

*  I  am  referring  to  the  experiments  of  the  late  Dr.  H. 
Charlton  Bastian. 


SPALLANZANI  157 

that  fecundation  was  effected  by  some  sort  of  aura 
or  gas  given  off  by  the  seed  of  the  male.  Spallanzani 
succeeded  in  showing  that  the  semen  itself  is  the 
responsible  agent,  though  he  aggressively  claimed  to 
have  fertilized  frogs'  eggs  with  seminal  fluid  devoid 
of  spermatozoa,  in  contravention  of  the  theory  of 
Leeuwenhoek  who  was  advocating  the  "  spermatic 
vermicelli "  as  the  "  immediate  authors  of  generation." 
Spallanzani  thought  he  had  "  irrefragably  proved " 
the  falsity  of  this  doctrine.  Leeuwenhoek,  on  the 
other  hand,  denied  the  ovum  any  important  part  in 
the  formation  of  the  embryo,  regarding  it  apparently 
as  the  nidus  in  which  the  spermatozoon  developed. 
It  is  permissible  to  feel  a  certain  amount  of  sardonic 
satisfaction  at  the  ex  cathedra  pronouncements  the 
Professor  gave  upon  questions  in  which  Time,  the 
Enemy,  has  found  him  out.  Spallanzani's  loyalty  to 
his  own  observations  made  him  over  confident,  too 
cocksure. 

An  incident  in  connection  with  his  translation  of 
Bonnet's  "The  Contemplation  of  Nature"  is  worth 
recording  for  the  illumination  it  sheds  upon  his  point 
of  view  in  biology  and  in  University  education. 
Each  Professor  was  required  to  select  a  book  for  the 
use  of  the  students,  and  Spallanzani's  choice  fell 
naturally  on  his  translation  of  Bonnet.  But  this 
selection  on  being  submitted  did  not  meet  with 
approval    in    Vienna,    where    ideas    of    University 


158  SPALLANZANl 

instruction  in  biology  were  diametrically  opposed  to 
those  now  in  vogue.  That  is  to  say,  great  importance 
was  attached  to  systematic  work  to  the  exclusion  of  a 
more  philosophical  treatment  of  the  subject.  The 
Professor  of  Natural  History  in  Vienna,  a  man  un- 
known to  fame  and  the  author  of  a  single  modest 
treatise,  entitled  "  Additamenta  quaedam  ad  Entomo- 
logiam,"  sat  in  judgment  upon  the  exasperated 
Spallanzani,  and  reported  that,  while  he  admired  the 
philosophic  character  of  Spallanzani's  selection,  he  did 
not  believe  Bonnet's  book  sufficient  to  give  the  neces- 
sary instruction  in  nomenclature  which  was  the 
universal  language  used  by  naturalists  of  many  coun- 
tries to  make  themselves  and  their  works  understood. 
Spallanzani's  philosophic  temper  made  him  already 
impatient  with  the  systematists  at  whom  he  flung  the 
gibe  of  "  nomenclature  naturalists  " ;  his  contumely 
was  prodigiously  increased  by  this  obscure  Viennese 
Professor's  criticisms. 

On  being  requested,  Spallanzani  wrote  out  a 
reasoned  programme  of  the  lectures  he  intended  to 
give  on  Natural  History.  This  programme  amounted 
really  to  a  defence  of  his  point  of  view  in  Natural 
History,  but  the  higher  authorities,  in  spite  of  all, 
were  adamant,  and  Spallanzani  was  forced  to  come 
to  terms  on  the  subject  of  nomenclature  instruction 
with  the  bribe  of  a  promised  increase  of  salary — 
always  an  irresistible  lure  to  the  Professor. 


SPALLANZANI  159 

But  Spallanzani  was  by  nature  an  intransigeant. 
And  it  is  hardly  probable  that  he  would  succumb  on 
a  principle  of  such  vital  importance  to  his  biological 
teaching-.  In  fact,  there  is  evidence  to  show  that,  as 
in  the  early  days  of  his  Professorship,  he  continued  to 
demonstrate  respiration  in  molluscs,  fecundation  in 
Amphibia,  and  other  unorthodox  phenomena. 

To  the  efficiency  of  his  lectures  all  his  biographers 
bear  witness.  Senebier  wrote :  "  Une  eloquence 
simple  et  vive  animait  ses  discours;  la  purete  et 
I'elegance  de  son  elocution  seduisaient  ceux  qui 
I'entendaient."  He  possessed  the  teacher's  gift  of 
inspiring  with  enthusiasm  both  students  and  the  men 
of  science  who  came  to  hear  him  from  every  part  of 
Europe.  The  tributes  of  his  European  contempor- 
aries were  generous  without  reserve.  Bonnet  said 
that  he  had  discovered  more  truths  in  five  or  six 
years  than  all  the  Academies  in  half  a  century,  while 
"  the  dying  hand  of  Haller  consigned  to  him  the 
defence  of  Truth  and  Nature." 

During  the  first  part  of  his  residence  in  Pavia,  he 
lodged  in  an  ex-convent  with  Professor  Scopoli,  and 
although  when  and  where  is  not  known,  he  must  have 
already  taken  Holy  Orders,  as  he  was  accustomed  to 
increase  his  income  by  conducting  Mass  in  a  Church 
close  at  hand.  On  quitting  these  lodgings  he  engaged 
some  rooms  in  a  house  in  the  attic  of  which  his  famous 
experiments  on  bats  were  carried  out.    The  house  has 


i6o  SPALLANZANI 

been  identified  nnd  in  the  attic  some  interesting  relics 
were  discovered  in  the  strings  and  dried  up  pipis- 
trclles  used  by  him  in  these  investigations.  He 
blinded  the  animals,  sometimes  by  burning  the  eyes 
with  a  red  hot  wire,  and  sometimes  by  removing  the 
organs  altogether,  and  even  filling  up  the  orbital 
cavity  with  wax.  Notwithstanding  these  mutilations, 
the  little  creatures  were  able  to  fly  as  well  as  before, 
avoiding  the  walls,  and  the  strings  suspended  in  the 
path  of  their  flight.  These  and  other  experiments 
led  him  to  the  conclusion  that  bats  find  their  way  in 
the  dark  by  means  of  some  special  sense  situated  in 
an  unknown  organ  in  the  head.  It  is  now  generally 
accepted  that  this  astonishing  faculty  in  bats  of 
directing  their  flight  is  due  to  an  exceptional  develop- 
ment of  the  sense  of  touch,  especially  in  the  wing 
membranes. 

Before  finding  fault  with  the  brutality  of  Spallan- 
zani  as  an  experimenter,  it  is  just  to  remember  that 
his  passionate  curiosity  led  him  to  turn  his  ruthless 
hand  even  against  himself.  For  in  his  "  Studies  in 
Digestion  "*  he  describes  how  he  swallowed  bone, 
cartilage,  and  tendon,  concealed  in  perforated  wooden 
tubes,  to  be  subsequently  vomited,  and  how,  in  order 
to  obtain  gastric  juice  for  the  purposes  of  artificial 
digestion,  he  caused  himself  to  vomit  on  an  empty 

*  Proving  the  fact  of  digestion  by  solution  as  against  the 
theory  of  trituration. 


SPALLANZANI  i6i 

stomach,  by  tickling  the  fauces.  This  knowledge 
ought  to  soften  the  heart  of  the  most  fanatical 
zoophilist  towards  the  Abbe. 

In  August,  1779,  we  find  him  in  Switzerland  on  a 
visit  to  his  friend  Bonnet  at  the  latter's  "  delightful 
villa"  at  Genthod.  Abraham  Trembley  was  also 
present,  and  one  likes  to  think  of  these  three,  with 
heads  bent  and  hands  folde;d  behind  the  back,  walk- 
ing and  talking  together,  each  of  them  engaged  upon 
researches  of  great  moment  in  biology  —  Bonnet 
perhaps  on  his  studies  of  asexual  propagation  in 
aphides,  Trembley  on  regeneration  in  hydra  the 
fresh-water  polyp,  and  Spallanzani  occupied  just 
then  in  fertilization  in  toads.  In  Bonnet's  presence 
he  cut  off  the  hind  legs  of  a  male  toad  during  its 
embrace  of  the  female  without  effecting  a  separation. 
The  female,  he  points  out,  may  begin  to  discharge 
eggs  later,  and  the  male  with  his  blood  flowing  all  the 
time  continues  to  impregnate  them  with  his  semen. 
In  reply  to  a  question,  "he  did  not  hesitate  to  say 
that  this  persistence  was  less  the  effect  of  obtuseness 
of  feeling  than  vehemence  of  passion."  In  these  days 
of  comparative  psychology,  the  idea  of  a  vehemently 
passionate  toad  raises  a  smile. 

The  Abbe  was  an  enthusiastic  traveller,  and  his 
expeditions  to  the  Milanese  Mountains,  to  Marseilles, 
Sicily,  and  his  visits  to  Vesuvius  and  the  Lipari  Isles, 
brought  in  a  rich  harvest  of  scientific  results.     More 

II 


i62  SPALLANZANI 

over,  Spallanzani  by  no  means  confined  his  attention 
to  biology.  lie  studied  natural  history  in  the 
broadest  meaning  of  the  term.  He  helped  to  lay  the 
foundations  of  vulcanology  and  meteorology,  he 
discovered  the  true  explanation  of  "  Ducks  and 
Drakes  "  on  the  surface  of  water  (^formerly  attributed 
to  "  elasticity  "  of  the  water),  he  experimented  with 
the  water  divining  rod,  and  by  the  aid  of  Pennet's 
instrument,  called  "  the  Minerographico,"  he  and 
Pennet  claimed  to  have  revealed  subterranean  cur- 
rents of  water  in  the  Courtyard  of  the  University. 

In  1784  Spallanzani  was  projecting  his  great 
journey  to  Constantinople,  and  entered  into  a  corres- 
pondence concerning  it  with  his  Excellency  Count 
Formian,  the  Austrian  Minister  Plenipotentiary  at 
the  Court  of  Milan.  The  Professor  was  a  pastmaster 
in  the  gentle  art  of  pulling  strings,  and  he  had, 
hitherto,  been  egregiously  successful,  not  only  in 
obtaining  permission  to  undertake  expeditions,  but 
also  in  obtaining  funds  for  them  and  in  increasing  his 
stipend. 

Whether  or  not  the  University  was  at  length  begin- 
ning to  kick  against  the  pricks  is  not  evident,  but  his 
proposal  hung  fire,  and  the  arrangements  were  being 
protracted. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  towards  the  end  of  the  year 
that  Spallanzani  engineered  a  piece  of  admirable  bluff 
—or,  as  he  himself  called  it,  a  "  giro  politico " — by 


SPALLANZANI  163 

asking  to  be  relieved  of  his  post— with  the  excuse  that 
the  air  in  Pavia  was  unsuitable  to  his  healtli.  Vienna 
straightway,  in  order  "  to  preserve  for  the  University 
a  celebrated  person,"  and  in  order  not  to  prejudice 
the  University  in  public  opinion,  promised  him  hand- 
some compensation  in  the  way  of  salary  if  he  remained, 
and  also  gave  him  permission  to  go  to  Constantinople. 
And  so,  "  the  fogs  cleared,  the  humidity  disappeared, 
and  every  ill  was  cured,  even  the  gout,"  remarks  a 
commentator,  slyly. 

Spallanzani  stayed  nearly  a  year  in  Turkey,  made 
many  valuable  observations,  was  received  by  the 
Sultan,  and,  on  his  way  home  overland,  stopped  in 
Vienna,  to  be  presented  by  Joseph  II.  with  a  gold 
medal.  The  return  home  was  a  triumphal  progress, 
for  on  reaching  Pavia  he  was  met  and  acclaimed  out- 
side the  city  gates  by  numbers  of  his  students  and 
escorted  by  them  through  the  streets. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  the  Museum  at  Pavia 
was  founded  by  Spallanzani.  As  he  himself  claimed, 
it  had  been  born  under  his  hands,  it  had  grown  under 
his  direction,  and  owed  its  prosperity  to  his  corres- 
pondence, activity,  and  travels.  Now  during  Spallan- 
zani's  absence  in  Turkey,  Canon  Volta,  acting  as 
Curator  of  the  Museum,  made  the  discovery  that 
several  objects,  though  mentioned  in  the  catalogue, 
were  missing  from  the  Museum.  Volta,  alas !  was 
among   the   few   who   knew   that   at   Scandiano   the 


i64  SPAI.LANZANI 

Professor  owned  a  private  museum.  So,  pretcndmg 
to  set  out  on  an  excursion  to  Tuscany,  Volta  went  to 
Scandiano,  and,  under  a  false  name,  asked  to  see  the 
Spallanzani  Museum.  On  coming  out,  he  went 
straight  to  an  inn  and  made  a  note  of  all  he  had  seen. 
He  next  wrote  to  Counsellor  don  Luigi  Lambertenghi 
in  Milan,  informing  him  that  the  numerous  objects 
missing  from  the  Museum  at  Pavia  were  to  be  found 
in  Spallanzam's  Museum  in  Scandiano,  and  that 
some  of  the  objects  were  still  marked  with  their 
original  numbers,  the  jars  for  the  most  part  having 
the  red  labels  of  the  jars  at  Pavia.  He  requested  the 
Counsellor  to  see  that  the  Government  verified  his 
assertions.  He  also  gave  information  to  the  Supreme 
Ecclesiastical  Commission  and  the  Commission  of 
Studies,  and  in  Pavia  he  talked  frequently  of 
"  Spallanzani's  thefts,"  so  that  the  scandal  soon  came 
to  be  divulged. 

Professors  Scopoli,  Scarpa,  and  Fontana  were  also 
drawn  into  the  conspiracy,  which  went  to  the  in- 
credible length  of  sending  to  persons  in  authority,  to 
Spallanzani's  friend  Bonnet,  to  Tissot  and  others,  to 
the  heads  of  the  Italian  Universities,  and  generally 
of  distributing  throughout  the  Continent  a  circular 
informing  the  world  at  large  of  the  "unexpected," 
"  ignominious,"  "  atrocious "  crime  of  their  famous 
colleague. 

The  motive  actuating  these  men  was  said  to  be 


SPALLANZANI  165 

envy  of  Spallanzani's  eminence  as  a  man  of  science, 
intensified  by  their  fear  of  showing  it  on  account  of 
his  influence  at  Court.  Probably,  Spallanzani's  own 
intolerant  attitude  towards  his  intellectual  mferiors 
was  scarcely  likely  to  adjust  matters.  "  What 
wonder,"  he  exclaims,  speaking  of  Pavia,  "  that  in 
districts  so  low,  so  foggy,  so  marshy,  talents  are  so 
rare." 

Confronted  with  a  charge  of  theft  of  which  he  was 
early  advised,  Spallanzani  hurried  home  from  Vienna. 
By  a  special  decree  of  the  14th  of  September,  1786, 
the  Government  of  Lombardy  was  ordered  to  inter- 
vene. The  latter  sent  secretly  to  Scandiano,  where  it 
was  reported  that,  though  certain  objects  missing 
from  the  Museum  at  Pavia  were  observed,  there  was 
no  indication  to  show  that  they  belonged  to  the 
Museum  at  Pavia.  Under  the  Presidency  of  Wilseck, 
Minister  Plenipotentiary,  an  enquiry  was  opened  at 
the  Royal  Palace  of  Milan,  where  Spallanzani's  reply 
to  the  charge  succeeded  conspicuously.  The  missing 
birds  were  badly  prepared,  had  lost  their  feathers,  and 
were  eventually  thrown  away.  The  armadillo,  the 
snakes,  the  seal,  the  hammer-headed  shark,  and  the 
sword-fish,  had  been  given  away  in  exchange.  Other 
things  had  been  used  in  experiments,  and  finally  the 
rare  Conus — "  Cono  ammirale  " — turned  up  again  in 
the  Museum,  and  had  never  really  been  lost. 

The  Abb^  preferred  a  counter-charge  against  Volta 


i66  SPALLANZANI 

of  breaking  up  agates  and  precious  stones  and  distri- 
buting the  pieces  among  his  friends.  He  also  showed 
that  the  Curator  often  left  things  out  on  the  table  of 
the  Museum  when  students  and  workmen  were  free  to 
come  in  and  out. 

A  report  of  these  lamentable  proceedings  was  for- 
warded to  Vienna,  with  a  letter  from  the  President  to 
the  Imperial  Chancellor  Kaunitz,  in  which  insistence 
was  placed  on  putting  an  end  to  intrigues  among  the 
Professors,  as  it  created  a  spirit  of  faction  among 
them,  and  brought  discord  even  among  the  students. 

As  a  result  of  the  inquiry,  Spallanzani  was  declared 
innocent,  Canon  Volta  was  deprived  of  his  office  as 
Curator  of  the  Museum,  and  sent  away  from  Pavia, 
while  Professors  Fontana,  Scarpa,  and  Scopoli  were 
censored  "  for  the  grave  prejudice  to  the  reputation  of 
Professor  Spallanzani  by  having  imputed  to  him  with- 
out proof  "  so  grave  a  charge  as  theft. 

Spallanzani  was  delighted.  He  sent  a  warm  letter 
of  gratitude  to  Wilseck,  his  "great  protector  and 
great  Maecenas,"  and  distributed  to  all  the  European 
centres  of  learning  a  circular  in  reply  to  the  one  sent 
by  the  conspirators  showing  how  his  character  had 
been  cleared. 

In  spite  of  the  issue  of  a  royal  decree  imposing 
silence  upon  those  concerned  in  the  scandal,  the 
Reverend  Abbe  was  unable  to  restrain  himself  from 
reviling  his  calumniators  with  vituperation  of  a  kind 


SPALLANZANI  167 

that  betrayed  at  least  a  clumsy  wit.  Volta  was  "  a 
bladder,  full  of  wind,  an  object  of  abomination  and 
horror."  Scarpa  was  "  a  cabalist,  one  of  the  most 
inferior  of  scholars,  a  perfect  plagiarist."  Scopoli  was 
a  "  Physis  intestinalis,"  this  being  a  name  published 
by  Scopoli  for  a  portion  of  probably  a  bird's  trachea 
in  mistake  for  an  intestinal  worm  which  is  given  all 
the  usual  honours  of  a  figure  and — description  in 
Scopoli's  book,  "  Deliciae  Florae  et  Faunae  Insubricae 
seu  Novae  aut  minus  cognitas  species  Plantarum  et 
Animalium  quas  in  Insubrica  Austriaca."*  In  addi- 
tion to  these  sledge-hammer  blows  he  also  dealt  out 
the  stiletto  thrusts  of  anonymous  communications  to 
the  newspapers,  which  have  been  dealt  with  by 
Professor  Pavesi  in  "  II  Crimine  Scientifico  di 
Spallanzani  guidicato  "  'Milan,  1899). 

Some  doubts,  after  all,  of  Spallanzani's  integrity  in 
the  affair  have  been  expressed.  These  probably 
originated  in  the  fact  that  Professor  was  reported 
to  have  subsequently  suppressed  a  part  of  his  first 
memorial  of  defence  in  which  he  confessed  that  at 
Scandiano  he  kept  some  of  the  objects  belonging  to 
the  Museum  at  Pavia,  but  only  with  the  idea  of  study- 
ing them  and  returning  them  afterwards  to  Pavia. 
His  natural  astuteness  helped  him  to  foresee  the 
danger  of  such  a  confession  at  such  a  crisis. 

Although  this  was  not  the  only  battle  the  Abb6 
*  I.,  1786,  p.  46. 


i68  SPALLANZANI 

fought  with  his  aggressors,  no  one  ousted  him  from  his 
position  or  deprived  him  of  his  reputation.  He  con- 
tinued to  enjoy  his  fame,  and  received  many  signal 
honours.  He  was  Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Philosophy 
several  times,  and  in  1778  the  students  by  a  majority 
of  votes  elected  him  to  the  Rectorship.  At  the 
Museum,  he  received  many  distinguished  visitors, 
including  the  Emperor  Joseph  II.  It  is  amusing  to 
read  that  lo  the  "genlili  Signore "  he  was  always 
happy  to  show  the  Aluseum — "  provided  they  were 
beautiful  and  intelligent."  Even  this  granite  character, 
perhaps,  had  its  softer  side. 

Although  for  diplomatic  reasons,  Spallanzani  used 
often  to  complain  that  he  was  not  well  in  Pavia,  he 
really  enjoyed  a  florid  state  of  good  health;  and  the 
day  before  he  was  attacked  by  the  apoplexy  which 
ended  in  his  death  he  was  pursuing  with  the  most 
youthful  ardour  his  experiments  in  respiration,  the 
results  of  which  were  published  posthumously.  Three 
days  after  his  seizure  he  had  recovered  sufficiently  to 
be  able  to  recite  verses  from  Homer,  Tasso,  and 
Vergil.  But  "  Canto  di  cigno,"  as  Professor  Pavesi 
says — a  droll  metaphor  having  regard  to  Spallanzani's 
raptorial  countenance,  particularly  as  it  must  have 
looked  peering  above  the  bedclothes  ! — "  Canto  di 
cigno,"  for  at  2.30  a.m.  on  the  i  ith  of  February,  1799, 
after  having  received  the  Papal  Benediction,  he  fell 
back  and  expired  suddenly. 


SPALLANZANI  169 

At  the  post-mortem,  his  heart  was  taken  out  and 
deposited  by  his  brother  Nicolo  in  the  Church  at 
Scandiano.  The  bladder  and  urethra  being  of  patho- 
logical interest  are  still  preserved  in  Pavia — mortal 
relics  as  notorious  as  Mr.  Babbage's  brain  or  Lord 
Darnley's  left  femur  in  the  Museum  of  the  Royal 
College  of  Surgeons. 

Spallanzani's  reputation  beyond  any  doubt  has 
declined  from  the  meridian  height  it  occupied  during 
his  lifetime.  His  genius  of  character  and  his  attain- 
ments were  evidently  a  potent  influence  among  his 
contemporaries,  and  the  nature  of  some  of  his  experi- 
ments in  those  dark  days  were  well  calculated  to 
excite  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  the  crowd.  It 
used  to  be  said  that  fecundation  was  among  the 
mysteries  of  Nature  and,  like  many  of  her  operations, 
an  object  of  admiration  rather  than  of  inquiry.  But 
the  Reverend  Professor,  unwilling  to  cast  too  much 
responsibility  on  the  Divine  Power,  however  agree- 
able that  might  be  to  the  idleness  of  man,  set  to  work 
and  succeeded  in  artificially  fertilizing  a  bitch  spaniel 
with  the  spontaneous  emissions  of  a  dog  injected  by  a 
syringe.  Sixty-two  days  afterwards  three  lively 
whelps  were  born.  "  I  can  truly  say,"  he  remarks, 
"  that  I  never  received  greater  pleasure  upon  any 
occasion  since  I  cultivated  natural  philosophy." 

His  work  in  pond  life  and  protozoa — "  myriads  of 
which  peopled  a  single  drop" — and  his  observations 


I/O  SPALLANZANI 

on  Rotifers,  "  w  hich  came  to  life  again  "  after  desicca- 
tion, lent  colour  to  the  hyperbolic  expression  of 
admiration  with  which  a  poet  suggested  that  he  had 
divine  power. 

I  trust  it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity  to  say  that 
there  was  nothing  divine  at  all  about  the  Reverend 
Abb6.  Spallanzani  was  not  an  angel — yet  he  was 
something  more  than  a  great  biologist — he  was  a 
great  man.  A  study  of  the  extensive  biographical 
literature  which  has  grown  up  around  him  will  give 
the  curious  reader  some  idea  of  his  masterful  person- 
ality and  of  the  way  in  which  it  gripped  the  scientific 
world  in  which  he  lived. 


1915 


COLONEL  MONTAGU* 

Colonel  George  Montagu  (1755- i8i 5)  is  not  a 
star  of  great  magnitude  in  the  firmament  of  illustrious 
dead  naturalists.  I  cannot  even  claim  for  him  that, 
like  Patrick  Mathew,  he  anticipated  Darwin,  or  that, 
like  Gilbert  White,  he  wrote  a  book  which  everybody 
reads.  Yet  English  field-naturalists  have  always  been 
ready  to  give  him  his  due  as  one  of  the  earliest 
observers  to  describe  with  accuracy  and  scientific 
precision  the  many  singular  and  interesting  animals 
inhabiting  our  shores  and  countryside.  Professor 
Edward  Forbes  wrote  of  him  : 

"  Montagu's  eminence  as  a  naturalist  depended  upon  his 
acute  powers  of  observation  and  the  perspicuous  manner  in 
which  he  regarded  the  facts  which  came  under  his  notice.  .  .  . 
I  have  had  occasion  chiefly  to  test  the  observation  of  Montagu 
in  cases  where  marine  animals  were  concerned  and  have 
been  astonished  at  the  extent,  variety  and  minuteness  of  his 
researches.  He  laboured  at  a  time  when  there  were  few 
people  wlio  took  an  interest  in  marine  zoology  .  .  .  but  Mon- 
tagu did  not  shrink  from  his  work  because  he  met  few  com 
panions  or  found  little  sympathy.      He  steadily  pursued  his 

•  Reprinted  from   Proceedings  of  the  Linnean  Society  of 
London. 

171 


1/2  COLONEL    MONTAGU 

chosen  (ask  and  l;ii(I  the  foiiiulatioii  of  lli;it  Uiorou^h  investiga- 
tion of  the  Xatural  History  of  flic  iiiitisli  seas  which  now 
forms  so  distinctive  and  appropriate  a  feature  of  the  science  of 
our  country." 

The  older  English  naturalists — Yarrel,  Rennie, 
Fleming,  Selby,  Day — all  bear  testimony  to  the  value 
of  Montagu's  work. 

It  may  be  surmised  that  we  are  about  to  deal  with 
a  very  dull  fellow  indeed.  Certainly  it  may  prove 
difficult  to  stimulate  general  interest  in  the  secluded 
life  of  a  simple-minded  country  gentleman  who  spent 
his  days  in  catching  worms  and  starfish.  Moreover, 
Montagu's  is  not  a  personality  requiring  subtle 
psychological  analysis.  He  had  no  "  temperament " 
and  no  "  mission."  He  started  no  movement  and  was 
the  centre  of  no  new  "  culture."  Neither  the  Pre- 
Raphaelites  nor  the  Transcendentalists  will  be  called 
into  account.  Let  the  dead  bury  the  dead.  Montagu 
was  "  un  coeur  simple,"  and  those  happily  unsophisti- 
cated few  who  still  can  pursue  with  delight  the 
fortunes  of  Dr.  Primrose  and  his  spouse  will  not  be 
slow  in  discovering  in  the  chequered  career  and  naive 
personality  of  this  warrior-naturalist  the  same  charm 
and  the  same  idyllic  quality  which  distinguish  "  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield." 

There  is  no  gainsaying  Montagu's  enthusiasm  for 
zoology.  In  1789  he  wrote  to  Gilbert  White  that  were 
he  not  bound  by  conjugal  attachment  he  would  have 


COLONEL  MONTAGU  173 

liked  to  ride  his  hobby  into  distant  parts.  Lady- 
Holland,  the  famous  grande  dame,  records  meeting 
him  one  day  at  dinner,  when  the  Colonel  "  launched 
forth  on  the  topics  he  is  au  fait  of  and  during  a  three 
hours'  assemblage  of  people  at  and  after  dinner,  he 
gave  the  natural  history  of  every  bird  that  (lies  and 
every  fish  that  swims." 

To  trace  the  genesis  of  his  love  of  natural  history, 
which  in  those  days  must  have  distinguished  him  as  a 
very  eccentric  person,  it  is  necessary  to  go  back  to  his 
early  youth,  when  at  the  age  of  nineteen  he  fought  in 
the  War  of  the  American  Colonies  as  an  officer  in  the 
1 5th  Regiment  of  Foot.  In  America  he  first  began  to 
shoot  and  collect  birds,  a  few  of  which  he  prepared 
with  his  own  hands,  though  with  no  further  intention 
than  that  of  presenting  them  to  his  Lucasta  on  return- 
ing from  the  wars. 

Montagu  had  already,  at  the  age  of  eighteen, 
married  Anne,  the  eldest  daughter  of  William 
Courtenay  and  Lady  Jane  Courtenay,  sister  of  the 
Earl  of  Bute,  who  was  Prime  Minister  to  George  IIL 
Montagu  himself  was  a  man  of  some  quality,  his 
mother  being  the  granddaughter  of  Sir  Charles 
Hedges,  Queen  Anne's  Secretary;  and  his  father, 
James  Montagu,  being  descended  from  James 
Montagu,  who  was  the  third  son  of  Sir  Henry 
Montagu,  first  Earl  of  Manchester. 

Montagu's  marriage  turned  out  unhappily.     Dates 


174  COLONEL  MONTAGU 

and  details  arc  not  available,  but  it  is  perhaps 
sufficient  to  say  that  he  became  eventually  separated 
from  his  wife,  and  in  1799  was  living  with  another 
lady  at  Kingsbridge  in  South  Devon,  where  most  of 
his  best  work  in  marine  zoology  was  carried  on. 

Lady  Holland,  after  remarking  upon  his  reputed 
ill-temper  and  the  separation  from  his  wife,  adds 
sardonically  that  he  "...  might  inherit  an  estate 
from  his  brother  if  he  would  be  united  to  her,  but  the 
condition  is  too  hard  and  he  renounces  the  possession 
of  a  benefit  so  encumbered."  His  eldest  brother 
James,  dying  childless,  left  the  family  estates  at 
Lackham  in  Wiltshire  to  the  Colonel's  eldest  son,  the 
Colonel  himself  receiving  only  a  rent  charge  of  i^Soo 
a  year.  A  lawsuit  followed,  and  father  and  son  were 
arraigned  against  each  other.  The  litigation  was 
prolonged,  and  this,  coupled  with  the  son's  extrava- 
gance, ultimately  deprived  the  family  of  their  estate. 
Colonel  Montagu  was  forced  to  endure  the  mortifica- 
tion of  seeing  all  the  fine  old  timber  on  the  estate  cut 
down  and  sold,  and  the  valuable  library  and  collection 
of  relics  and  curiosities  at  Lackham  House  sold  and 
disboursed  under  a  decree  of  the  court. 

In  later  )'ears,  the  loss  of  his  three  lusty  soldier  sons, 
John,  James,  and  Frederick,  brought  further  sorrow 
into  the  old  gentleman's  life,  and  in  the  Parish  Church 
at  Lacock  may  be  read  the  touching  memorial  he 
erected  to  the  memory  of  Frederick,  his  favourite,  who 


COLONEL  MONTAGU  i;5 

fell  pierced  through  the  heart  by  a  musket  ball,  while 
leading  his  men  to  the  charge  at  the  Battle  of  Albuera 
in  1811, 

In  spite  of  Lady  Holland's  gossiping  references  to 
a  threatened  court-martial,  there  is  every  reason  to 
believe  that  Montagu  himself  was  a  very  gallant 
soldier  who  lived  up  to  the  best  traditions  of  English 
honour.  His  book,  "  The  Sportsman's  Directory," 
contains  some  very  curious  passages  of  instruction  in 
the  art  of  fighting  a  duel. 

His  house  at  Kingsbridge  was  full  of  curiosities  and 
trophies,  and  "  there  were  live  birds  all  over  the 
grounds,"  and  ducks,  gulls,  and  all  sorts  of  swimming- 
birds  on  the  pond.  This  recalls  Walton  Hall,  the 
residence  of  Charles  Waterton,  the  "mad  English- 
man," famous  as  a  naturalist  and  as  the  author  of  the 
"  Wanderings  in  South  America." 

Life  in  the  little  town  in  Devonshire  must  have 
flowed  very  quietly.  Although  of  ancient  and  honour- 
able descent,  Montagu  founded  his  claims  to  respect 
upon  individual  merit  rather  than  upon  noble  ancestry. 
He  disliked  pomp  and  ceremony  of  all  kinds,  and 
found  his  true  measure  beating  through  the  brush- 
wood to  identify  the  song  of  the  wood-wren,  or 
digging  up  worms  from  the  mud  in  the  estuary :  a 
life  of  seclusion  broken  occasionally  by  the  "stagger- 
ing" discovery  of  some  new  kind  of  beast  or  by  the 
presentation  of  his  memoirs  to  the  Linnean  Society. 


1/6  COLONEL  MONTAGU 

His  mistress,  Eliza  Dorville,  seems  to  have  proved 
herself  a  \  alunble  helpmate  to  the  naturalist,  for  many 
of  the  drawings  of  the  animals  he  studied  bear  her 
initials. 

Montagu  died  of  lockjaw  in  1815  after  treading  on 
a  rusty  nail  during  the  course  of  some  repairs  to  the 
iiouse,  when  a  lot  of  old  timber  was  lying  about.  His 
authoritative  biographer,  William  Cunnington,  in  his 
short  memoir  in  the  Wiltshire  Magazine,  tells  us  that 
in  his  last  illness,  Montagu  bore  his  sufferings  with 
the  equanimity  of  a  philosopher  and  the  fortitude  and 
resignation  of  a  true  Christian.  An  old  friend,  the 
Rev.  K.  Vaughan,  of  Modbury,  was  at  his  bedside 
when  he  died.  On  being  asked  where  he  would  like 
to  be  buried,  the  Colonel  replied  calmly,  "  Where  the 
tree  falls,  there  let  it  lie  " ;  which  seems  to  show  that  he 
met  even  the  Last  Enemy  with  a  stout  heart. 

Many  years  ago  when  Kingsbridge  Church  was 
being  restored,  the  vaults  in  the  aisles  were  opened 
and  the  lead  stolen  from  the  coffins.  Montagu's  coffin 
was  the  most  massive  of  all,  but  the  thieves  succeeded 
in  ripping  off  the  lead,  the  remains  of  the  coffin  and 
the  naturalist's  bones  being  pitched  back  into  the 
vault. 

Montagu's  fame  as  a  naturalist  rests  mainly  on  his 
Ornithological  Dictionary,  which,  at  the  time  of  its 
publication  in  1802,  formed  an  excellent  compendium 
pf  information  on  the  structure,  life-history,  and  habits 


COLONEL  MONTAGU  1/7 

of  our  British  birds.  This  curious  old  book,  arranged 
in  alphabetical  order,  established  Montagu's  reputa- 
tion. Even  a  superficial  survey  will  convince  the 
student  of  its  worth.  It  was  Montagu  who  hrst  made 
known  to  science  tiie  beautiful  Roseate  Tern,  which  he 
named  Sterna  Dougalli  in  honour  of  Dr.  M'Dougall, 
who  sent  him  specimens  from  the  Cumbraes  in  the 
Firth  of  Clyde.  One  of  these  historic  specimens  is 
still  preserved  in  the  Natural  History  Museum  at 
South  Kensington. 

By  paying  strict  attention  to  the  changes  of 
plumage  incidental  to  age,  sex,  and  season,  Montagu 
achieved  a  great  deal  of  useful  work,  and,  among 
other  things,  proved  that  the  "  Greenwich  Sandpiper  " 
was  only  one  of  the  many  varieties  of  the  Ruff;  that 
the  "Ash-coloured  Sandpiper"  is  really  the  Knot. 
Similarly,  he  disposed  of  the  "Winter  Gull"  which 
was  only  Larus  canus,  and  corrected  the  mistake  of 
"  that  celebrated  author,  Mr.  Pennant,"  concerning  the 
"  Brown  Owl,"  which  was  merely  a  variety  of  the 
Tawny  species  {Syrnium  aluco).  Montagu  gave  us 
the  first  adequate  account  of  the  natural  history  of  the 
Dartford  Warbler,  and  those  who  have  learnt  to 
recognize  and  admire  the  beautiful  Cirl  Bunting  may 
like  to  know  that  Colonel  Montagu  first  discovered 
the  bird  in  this  country.  With  the  characteristic 
caution  and  critical  discernment  of  the  scientific  man, 
Montagu  hesitated  to  embrace  Gilbert  White's  heresy 


1/8  COLONEL  MONTAGU 

of  the  hibernation  of  swallows,  believing  the  majority 
to  migrate  while  a  few  only  were  detained  by  accident 
and,  becoming  torpid,  perished  before  the  return  of 
warmer  weather.  It  is  usually  stated  that  Mrs. 
Blackburn  {Nature,  1872,  Vol.  V.,  p.  383)  first  con- 
firmed Jenner's  controverted  statements  about  the 
cuckoo's  ejection  of  the  young  of  the  foster  parent. 
But  Montagu's  remarks  on  this  subject  in  the  Dic- 
tionary in  1802  support  and  confirm  Jenner's  remark- 
able discovery,  and  there  is  no  reason  to  disbelieve 
the  Colonel's  word  that  his  own  observations  were 
actually  made  before  those  of  Jenner. 

We  learn  from  Cunnington  that  Montagu  always 
kept  his  word,  was  always  punctual,  precise  in  his 
methods  of  work,  punctilious  over  questions  of  fact, 
and  in  industry  indefatigable.  These  jots  and  tittles 
of  evidence  point  straight  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
Father  of  English  Ornithology  was  a  good  type  of 
the  average  man  of  science- -accurate,  conscientious, 
thick-fingered,  laborious,  practical,  excellent.  Perhaps 
he  was  also  pig-headed,  irascible,  and  proud.  Any- 
way, if  the  reader  be  tempted  to  dip  into  the  Ornitho- 
logical Dictionary — and  I  heartily  recommend  the 
experiment — he  will  find  therein  revealed  another 
characteristic  which  easily  falls  into  line  with  the  rest 
and  completes  the  picture  for  us :  the  Colonel  could 
not  spell,  and  he  struggled  with  the  English  Syntax 
like  a  lion  in  a  net !     The  critics — oh  !  serious  critics  ! 


COLONEL  MONTAGU  i79 

—taxed  the  old  gentleman  with  writing  "  ossious," 
"curviture,"  "  delatable,"  and  for  such  formidable 
English  as,  "  With  all  these  reflections  formed  on  the 
known  laws  of  Nature,  evinced  by  daily  experience, 
we  can  have  no  more  doubt  of  the  identity  of  these 
two  shrikes  as  distinct  species  than  we  have  that  they 
are  different  from  the  Cinereous  Shrike." 

Using  the  butt  end  of  his  pen,  he  repulsed  the 
attack  of  his  critics  by  likening  them  to  "  assassins 
with  hands  continually  imbued  with  blood."  Critics 
and  assassins  followed  "  congenial  trades,"  for  "  each 
stabs  in  the  dark  and  are  too  frequently  actuated  by 
similar  motives." 

Proficient  in  the  use  of  the  gun,  pistol,  and  scalpel, 
the  gallant  Colonel  probably  found  the  pen  fiddling 
work,  and  after  all,  love,  marriage,  and  war  at  the  age 
of  nineteen  scarcely  form  the  right  psychological 
climate  for  acquiring  a  pure  English  style. 

There  is  no  space  to  speak  fully  of  Montagu's  inter- 
esting discoveries  in  marine  zoology.  He  discovered 
several  new  fishes,  and  added  the  beautiful  Butterfly 
Blenny  to  the  British  list.  In  the  "  Testacea  Bri- 
tannica  "  470  molluscs  are  enumerated,  upwards  of  a 
hundred  of  which  had  not  been  described  before,  or 
else  were  then  for  the  first  time  ascertained  to  be 
British. 

Quite  a  tour  de  force  in  its  way  was  his  "  Spongia 
Britannica,"  for   in   Montagu's  time  it  was  no  easy 


i8o  COLONEL  MONTAGU 

matter  to  write  a  book  on  British  sponges,  as  next  to 
nothing  was  known  of  their  structure,  and  systematic 
writers  therefore  had  to  rely  upon  inadequate  and 
superficial  characters  for  differentiating  species. 
Montagu  himself  speaks  of  it  as  an  "  occult  science," 
and  it  is  very  much  to  his  credit  that  succeeding 
authors  have  been  unanimous  in  regarding  his  sponge 
work  as  "  good  as  far  as  it  goes." 

It  is  natural  of  course  to  compare  him  with  his 
correspondent  and  more  famous  contemporary,  Gilbert 
White,  the  association  being  more  by  contrast  than 
similarity.  Both  were  field-naturalists  who  drew  "  the 
hidden  treasures  from  their  native  sites."  But 
Montagu  was  an  efficient  zoologist  who  mentally 
photographed  and  faithfully  recorded  phenomena  in 
a  series  of  memoirs  to  learned  Societies.  White 
strolled  in  his  garden  or  on  Selborne  Hanger,  and 
then  wrote  a  letter  telling  us  what  he  had  observed. 
Moreover,  White  was  a  scholar  and  wrote  tolerable 
verses.  There  is  a  delightful  personal  flavour  in  his 
book,  and  the  "  Natural  History  of  Selborne  "  is  as 
fresh  to-day  as  if  the  ink  were  still  wet  on  the  page. 
The  hard,  impersonal  verities,  which  Montagu 
recorded  with  a  graceless  pen,  have  long  since  passed 
into  the  body  of  our  general  information,  and  there 
remains  no  particular  cause,  unless  it  be  curiosity,  to 
seek  out  the  archives  in  which  they  are  entombed,  and 
no  bounden  duty,  unless  it  be  gratitude,  to  perpetuate 


COLONEL  MONTAGU  i8i 

the  memory  of  the  man  to  whom,  whether  naturalists 
know  it  or  not,  they  are  indebted  for  a  large  propor- 
tion of  our  seaside  natural  history  and  the  natural 
history  of  our  British  birds. 


1915- 


ROUSSEAU  AS  BOTANIST* 

In  his  early  days,  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  sampled 
most  of  the  good  things  in  the  intellectual  larder,  and 
more  than  once — like  a  mischievous  boy — brought  the 
jam-pot  down  on  his  head.  He  read  anatomy  until  he 
fancied  he  had  "  a  polypus  at  the  heart."  A  mixture 
of  "  quicklime,  orpiment,  and  water  "  exploded  in  his 
face,  and  so  put  a  short  term  to  his  researches  in 
experimental  physics.  In  astronomy  and  geology  his 
studies  were  equally  short,  and  we  may  be  sure  that 
he  was  the  least  likely  person  to  resume  his  struggles 
with  the  science  of  numbers  at  the  bidding  of  that 
facetious  lady  of  Venice,  who,  it  will  be  remembered, 
made  him  a  present  of  this  sound  advice  :  "  Lascia  le 
donne  e  studia  le  matematiche." 

At  the  time  when  Rousseau  was  one  of  the  remark- 
able menage  at  Les  Charmettes,  the  study  of  botany, 
one  day  to  become  his  master  passion,  made  no  appeal 
to  him.  Nay,  he  despised  it,  considering  botany  as  a 
subject  fit  merely  for  an  apothecary,  and  Rousseau's 
opinion   of  apothecaries   and   physicians  was   at   no 

*  Reprinted  from  The  Journal  of  Botany. 
183 


iS4  ROUSSEAU  AS  BOTANIST 

time  very  hi^li.  Madam  de  Warens  herself  was  a 
herbalist  rather  than  a  botanist,  and  that  silent 
devotee,  Claude  Anet,  was  originally  taken  into  her 
service  because  he  was  a  herbalist  and  because 
Madam  thought  it  convenient  to  have  among  her 
domestics  someone  with  a  knowledge  of  drugs. 

Botany  therefore  became  confounded  in  Rousseau's 
mind  with  anatomy  and  medicine,  and  served  only  to 
afford  him  frequent  opportunities  for  pleasantries  at 
Madam  de  Warens'  expense,  in  this  way  earning  for 
himself  a  friendly  box  on  the  ears. 

But  even  in  those  days  of  high  contemptuous  youth, 
Rousseau  was  sometimes  persuaded,  at  the  beck  of 
Madam  de  Warens,  to  bend  his  head  over  a  plant, 
while  "  Mama  "  pointed  out  to  him  a  thousand  natural 
beauties  which  greatly  amused  him  and  should  have 
made  him  a  botanist*  "But  the  time  was  not  yet,  and 
my  attention  was  arrested  by  too  many  other  studies  " 
— by  music  in  particular. 

It  was  more  than  twenty  years  later  that  Rousseau's 
slumbering  interest  in  botany  burst  into  the  flame  of 

*  During  a  walk  at  Cressicr  in  1764  Rousseau  noticed  a 
Periwinkle  growing  among  some  undergrowth  and  was  im- 
mediately transported  in  memory  back  to  his  old  friend 
Madam  de  Warens,  and  to  the  incident  when  she  drew  his 
attention  to  a  specimen  of  the  plant  some  thirty  years  before 
From  this  circumstance  the  Periwinkle,  in  France,  came  to  be 
the  emblem  of  tlie  pleasures  of  memory  and  sincere  friend- 
ship. 


ROUSSEAU  AS  BOTANIST  185 

real  passion.  By  this  time  he  was  a  refugee  from  France 
and  from  Geneva,  and  had  settled  down  at  length 
in  Metiers,  one  of  the  villages  standing  in  the  Val  de 
Travers,  a  valley  between  the  gorges  of  the  Jura  and 
the  Lake  of  Neuchatel.  Here,  big  with  desire  for  "  a 
knowledge  of  every  known  plant  on  tlie  globe,"  he 
began  with  an  attempt  to  commit  to  memory  the 
whole  of  the  "Regnum  Vegetabile"  of  Murray  !  Little 
wonder  that,  clad  in  his  Armenian  costume  and 
breathing  from  mouth  and  nostrils  (one  almost 
believes)  the  fires  of  his  fanatical  zeal  for  plants,  this 
remarkable  botanist — surely  the  most  remarkable  in 
the  history  of  the  science  ! — was  generally  held  by  the 
villagers  to  be  some  evilly  disposed  medicine  man,  who 
sought  for  noxious  herbs  and  who  was  confidently 
believed  to  have  poisoned  a  man  in  Motiers  who  died 
in  the  agonies  of  nephritic  colic. 

On  several  other  counts  also,  the  inhabitants 
did  not  take  kindly  to  the  strange  philosopher, 
and  their  dislike  at  length  culminated  in  the 
arrival  of  a  large  stone,  flung  by  a  vigorous  arm 
through  the  door  into  his  room,  where,  fortunately,  it 
fell  dead  at  the  philosopher's  feet.  A  little  later, 
J.  J.,  "  as  timid  and  shy  as  a  virgm,"  as  he  himself 
assures  us,  quitted  inhospitable  Motiers  for  the  Island 
of  St.  Pierre  in  the  Lake  of  Bienne,  where  his  life  for 
several  months  was  an  idyll,  well  suited  to  his  virginal 
character.     Most  readers  of  Rousseau  will  remember 


i86  ROUSSEAU  AS  BOTANIST 

his  delightful  description  of  this  brief  sojourn  in  "  Les 
Reveries  d'un  Promencur  Solitaire." 

Having  sent  for  his  Theresa,  who  arrived  at  his 
summons  with  all  his  books  and  effects,  the  botanist 
recommenced  his  scientific  labours.  There  was  ample 
opportunity.  With  the  customary  hyperbolical  turn 
of  phrase  that  makes  us  love  him,  Rousseau  relates 
how,  armed  with  the  "  Systema  Naturae  "  of  Linnaeus 
and  a  magnifying  glass,  he  wandered  over  the  island 
determined  to  leave  not  a  blade  of  grass  unanalyzed, 
and  murmuring  to  himself,  in  ecstatic  repetition,  the 
only  prayer  of  an  inarticulate  old  lady — "  Oh  " — 
which  drew  from  the  Bishop  the  enconiuni :  "  Good 
mother,  continue  thus  to  pray  :  your  prayer  is  better 
than  ours." 

Rousseau's  idea  was  to  write  a  monograph  of  all 
the  plants  on  the  island,  a  purpose  quickly  overthrown 
by  the  receipt,  presently,  from  the  Government  of 
Berne  of  a  peremptory  notice  to  quit.  And  so  the 
Flora  Petrinsularis  was  never  written.* 

Accepting  David  Hume's  invitation  to  visit 
England,  J.  J.  is  soon  settled  among  the  Derbyshire 
hills,  and,  at  Wootton,  took  immense  delight  in 
climbing  the  surrounding  heights  in  search  of  curious 
mosses,  convinced  at  last  that  the  discovery  of  a  single 
new  plant  was  a  hundred  times  more  delightful  than 

*  I  believe  Rousseau's  herbarium  is  now  in  the  Berlin 
Museum. 


ROUSSEAU  AS  BOTANIST  i8; 

to  have  the  whole  human  race  listening  to  his  sermons 
for  half  an  hour.  What  more  can  science  require  of 
a  man  ? 

After  the  break  with  Hume,  Rousseau,  by  this  time 
certainly  a  victim  of  persecution  mania,  fled  back  to 
France,  and  lived  for  some  time  under  the  tutelage  of 
the  Prince  de  Conti  at  Trye,  near  Gisors.  Here  he 
continued  his  botanical  studies  and  the  writing  of  the 
"  Confessions,"  in  a  state  of  seraphic  happiness  so  long 
as  he  was  able  unmolested  to  make  long  collecting 
excursions,  to  classify  and  arrange  his  herbarium  or 
to  watch  the  growth  of  some  specimen  from  the  seed. 
"  Parvenu  dans  les  lieux,"  he  wrote,  "  ou  je  ne  vois 
nulles  traces  d'hommes  je  respire  plus  a  mon  aise 
comme  dans  un  asyle  ou  leur  haine  ne  me  poursuit 
plus." 

Later  on,  he  was  accompanied  by  Bernardin  de  St. 
Pierre  in  these  country  rambles.  "  We  had  gone 
through  part  of  a  wood,"  writes  Bernardin  in  an 
account  of  one  of  their  joint  excursions,  "  when  in  the 
midst  of  the  solitude,  we  perceived  two  young  girls, 
one  of  whom  was  arranging  the  other's  hair."  It  is  not 
unfair  to  inquire  if  the  amorous  J.  J.,  before  a  scene 
like  this,  felt  no  temporary  vacillation  in  his  allegiance 
to  the  science  of  botany. 

While  staying  at  Grenoble,  during  the  course  of  a 
botanical  excursion  with  one  Sieur  Bovier,  an  advocate 
of  that  place,  whom  our  solitary  walker,  as  a  mark  of 


i88  ROUSSEAU  AS  BOTANIST 

especial  confidence,  had  invited  to  accompany  him, 
Rousseau  presently  began  to  refresh  himself  by  eating 
the  fruit  of  a  plant,  the  Sieur  meanwhile  remaining  at 
his  side,  without  imitating  him  and  without  saying 
anything.  Suddenly  a  stranger,  newly  arrived,  ex- 
claimed :  "  Ah,  Monsieur,  what  are  you  doing  ?  Don't 
you  know  that  fruit  is  poisonous?" 

"  Why  did  you  not  warn  mc  ?"  Rousseau  inquired  of 
the  Sieur. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,"  said  he,  "  I  dared  not  take  that 
liberty." 

Rousseau  smiled  at  the  fellow's  "  Dauphinoise 
humilite,"  and  suffered  no  ill  effects  from  his  little 
collation. 

At  first  one  is  inclined  to  think  that  J.  J.'s  interest 
in  botany  was  only  another  of  his  many  "  affaires  du 
coeur."  Closer  examination  soon  shows  that  it  was 
something  more.  His  book  on  the  elements  of  botany, 
consisting  of  a  series  of  letters  addressed  to  the 
Duchess  of  Portland  and  to  other  ladies,  and  his  un- 
finished dictionary  of  botanical  terms,  reveal  the 
author  as  a  serious  student  of  the  science.  Terms  like 
"  gymnosperm "  and  "  petiole "  came  as  easily  to 
Rousseau's  pen  as  to  the  pen  of  a  Malesherbe  or 
Jussieu.  He  practised  the  art  of  dissection — an 
example  which  many  botanists  of  to-day,  who  are 
probably  ready  to  sniff  at  Rousseau's  scientific  attain- 
ments, would  do  well  to  follow — and  he  owns  to  a 


ROUSSEAU  AS  BOTANIST  189 

"passionate  attachment  to  the  '  Systema  Naturae'  of 
Linnaeus,"  which  fact  alone  makes  it  impossible 
surely  to  account  him  anyone  less  than  a  botanist ! 

But  this  is  not  to  say  that  Rousseau  was  a  dry-as- 
dust.  "  Nothing  is  more  singular,"  he  wrote,  "  than  the 
rapture,  the  ecstacy  I  felt  at  every  observation  I  made 
on  vegetable  structure,  and  on  the  play  of  the  sexual 
parts  in  fructification.  The  forks  of  the  long  stamina 
of  the  Self-heal  .  .  .  the  explosion  of  the  fruit  of 
Balsam  .  .  .  and  a  hundred  little  acts  of  fructification 
filled  me  with  delight,  and  I  ran  about  asking  people 
if  they  had  ever  seen  the  horns  on  the  Self-heal,  just 
as  La  Fontaine  asked  if  Habbakuk  had  ever  been 
read." 

This  could  not  have  been  written  by  Mr.  Punch's 
stereotyped  fossil  with  spectacles,  straw  hat,  baggy 
trousers,  vasculum,  and  butterfly  net — he  is  a  joyless 
soul,  mainly  concerned  with  "  a  preoccupied  name  "  or 
a  nonien  nudum.  I  doubt,  in  fact,  if  it  could  have  been 
written  by  anyone  except  J.  J.  Rousseau — the  senti- 
mental botanist. 

Of  a  surety,  J.  J.  could  boast  of  no  academic  dis- 
tinctions ;  he  carried  on  no  original  research ;  he  was  a 
poor  observer.  He  confesses  that  in  botany  he  did  not 
seek  to  instruct  himself — it  was  too  late  for  that.  His 
idea  was  to  pursue  "  a  sweet  and  simple  amusement " 
without  any  prodigious  effort.  All  that  he  required 
was  "  une  pointe  et  un  loup."    To  him  botany  was  "  an 


190  ROUSSEAU  AS  BOTANIST 

idle  study,"  a  retreat  from  the  delirium  of  imagination 
and  the  persecution  of  mankind.  If  botany,  he  de- 
clared, be  studied  from  motives  of  ambition  and 
vanity,  only  to  become  an  author  or  professor,  all  the 
charm  of  it  vanishes,  and  plants  become  the  instru- 
ments of  our  passion. 

In  an  amusing  passage  in  the  "  Reveries,"  he  care- 
fully weighs  in  the  balance  the  respective  attractions 
of  the  other  sciences.  The  study  of  minerals,  delight- 
ful as  it  is,  meant  costly  experiments,  furnaces,  stifling 
vapours.  Zoology  also  was  a  science  full  of  difficulties 
and  embarrassments  to  the  virginal  soul.  How  on 
earth  was  J.  J.  to  observe,  study,  and  dissect,  to  know 
the  birds  of  the  air,  the  fishes  of  the  sea,  and  quadru- 
peds swifter  than  the  wind — creatures  "  not  more 
disposed  to  come  and  offer  themselves  for  my  research 
than  I  am  to  run  after  them  and  submit  them  to  force." 
As  he  rightly  observes,  the  study  of  animal  life  is 
nothing  without  dissection,  and  it  would,  therefore, 
be  necessary  for  him — J.  J,  to  wit ! — to  cut  up  animals 
and  extract  their  entrails,  ''  amid  all  the  frightful 
apparatus,  the  corpses,  livid  flesh,  skeletons,  disgust- 
ing intestines,  and  pestilential  vapours  "  of  an  ana- 
tomical theatre :  "  ce  n'est  pas  la  sur  ma  parole  que 
J.  J.  ira  chercher  ses  amusements." 

A  confessed  dillettante  then  if  you  like,  yet  it  is 
difficult  to  believe  that  Rousseau's  influence,  as  that  of 
many  another  amateur  without  hood  or  diploma,  was 


ROUSSEAU  AS  BOTANIST  igi 

not  salutary  and  felt.  He  taught  men  to  regard 
Nature  and  botanists  to  regard  plants.  Botany  was 
not  merely  a  question  of  dates  and  names  and  disqui- 
sitions sought  after  in  the  dusty  parchments  of  Galen 
and  Dioscorides.  Rousseau  cared  for  none  of  these 
things.  Botanists  must  search,  observe,  and  conjec- 
ture for  themselves  with  the  plant  before  them  and  the 
book  on  the  shelf.  He  insisted  on  the  divorce  of 
botany  from  medicine,  an  alliance  which  hampered 
research  in  the  pure  science  and  reduced  the  study  of 
vegetable  life  to  the  rank  of  handmaiden  to  the 
pharmacopoeia.  J.  J.  shared  Montaigne's  antipathy  to 
physic  and  physicians,  and  the  idea  of  his  beloved 
plants  being  brayed  in  a  mortar  with  a  pestle  and 
transformed  into  pills,  plasters,  and  ointment  revolted 
his  romantic  soul.  Botany — that  last  stronghold  of 
his  imagination — must  be  jealously  guarded  against 
the  calamity  of  de&lement  by  association  with  such 
things  as  fever,  stone,  gout,  epilepsy,  and  other  ills  of 
hateful,  unhappy  man. 

Consider  the  picture  of  those  two  bizarre  misan- 
thropes— Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  and  Bernardin  de  St. 
Pierre — walking  together  into  rural  solitude  and  seek- 
ing there  among  the  wild  flowers  what  they  could  not 
find  among  their  fellow-men  ! 


1916. 


THE  SCARABEE   MONOGRAPHED* 

I. 

In  the  minds  of  most  people,  the  naturalist  is  a  rare 
and  eccentric-looking  animal,  sometimes  observed 
poking  up  the  mud  of  a  horse-pond  or  dissecting  the 
internal  economy  of  a  tapeworm.  He  is  commonly 
supposed  to  bear  a  close  personal  resemblance  to  the 
animals  which  he  studies,  and  caricaturists  always  see 
him  with  a  tail  or  a  tentacle,  or  peeping  from  a  burrow 
or  perched  upon  the  branch  of  a  tree. 

Scarabees,  however,  are  often  very  ordinary-looking 
people  indeed,  with  no  distinguishing  mark  to  aid 
those  who  venture  upon  classification  after  a  cursory 
survey.  They  are  not  all  "  professors  "—though  some 
may  be  peers  of  the  realm.  They  do  not  all  wear 
spectacles — though  some  effectively  use  an  eyeglass. 
They  may  be  called  Charles,  Bob,  or  Dick — and  occa- 
sionally Algernon,  Cosmo,  or  Randolph.  They  are 
not  all  eccentrics ;  not  a  few  who  have  distinguished 
themselves  in  the  great  public  arena  of  Scarabee 
endeavour,    in    private    life    have    been    politicians, 

♦  Reprinted  from  The  Forum. 

193  13 


194   THE  SCARABEE  MONOGRAPHED 

courtiers,  and  ambassadors.  Buff  on  is  reported  to 
have  had  a  handsome  person  and  magnificent  diplo- 
matic manners.  Baron  dc  Gecr  (1720-1778),  Marshal 
of  tlic  Court  of  Sweden  and  Knight  of  the  Polar  Star, 
was  in  his  day  the  possessor  of  one  of  the  largest 
fortunes  in  Sweden  and  a  very  fine  gentleman  indeed. 
Yet  his  enthusiasm  for  "the  innocent  pursuit"  of 
Entomology  was  such  that  on  the  publication  of  his 
famous  "  Memoirs  on  the  History  of  Insects,"  he  was 
induced  in  a  fit  of  despair  to  burn  the  greater  part  of 
the  impression  because  they  failed  to  arouse  the 
interest  they  deserved. 

Prejudices  against  the  Scarabee's  chosen  pursuits 
are  legion.  In  that  delightful  novel,  "  Two  on  a 
Tower,"  by  Thomas  Hardy,  the  author  makes  his  hero 
an  astronomer  rather  than  a  biologist,  and  puts  him  in 
a  tower  in  the  moonlight  rather  than  in  a  ditch  catch- 
ing frogs.  It  is  unnecessary  to  be  a  novelist  to  see 
the  advantage  of  that;  moreover,  the  time  is  not  yet 
when  an  enlightened  public  opinion  can  see  in  the 
biologist  who  labours  in  the  mephitic  atmosphere  of 
horse-ponds  a  gentleman  no  whit  the  less  romantic 
than  an  astronomer  dogging  "  the  secret  footsteps  of 
the  heavens";  yet  the  truth  is  that  horse-ponds  con- 
tain marvels  as  staggering  as  solar  systems. 

The  common  idea  is  that  Scarabee  work  is  dirty, 
prosaic,  ridiculous — a  question  of  the  number  of  legs 
in    a    caterpillar,    of    such    technical    blazonry    as 


THE  SCARABEE  MONOGRAPHED   195 

"  Metopidium  high,  supra-numerals  elongate,  clypeus 
peristomial."  It  means  an  exotic  delight  in  some  such 
sensational  announcement  in  a  letter  to  "  Nature  "  as, 
say,  the  discovery  of  a  new  membrane  in  the  ali- 
mentary canal  of  a  lady-bird.  If  you  possess  a  friend 
or  relative  with  a  penchant  for  spiders  or  beetles, 
remember  to  ask  him  jocosely  when  you  meet,  "  Black 
beetles,  eh  ?"  forgetting,  I  trow,  the  parable  which  tells 
how  a  certain  great  personage  once  accosted  Gibbon 
after  the  publication  of  his  third  volume  of  "  The 
Decline  and  Fall"  with,  "Well,  Mr.  Gibbon,  still 
scribbling  ?"  (That  an  anatomist  can  be  as  voluminous 
as  Mr.  Gibbon  is  evident  if  I  say  that  as  recently  as 
last  year  a  German  doctor,  Herr  Professor  Voss, 
published  a  thick  book  recounting  the  structure  of  the 
thorax,  or  middle  part  only,  of  a  single  insect,  a 
cricket.) 

But  your  contemptuous  attitude  the  Scarabee  likes 
not,  though  he  usually  ignores  it.  He  is  a  happy  man, 
indifferent  to  what  the  world  may  think,  cultivating 
his  own  plot  of  happiness,  rarely  looking  over  the 
hedge  and  never  to  the  horizon,  self-contained,  autono- 
mous. No  one  who  has  read  Fabre,  or  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Peckham  on  wasps,  or  turned  over  the  plates  of 
Lyonet's  great  quarto  volume  on  the  structure  of  the 
caterpillar  of  Cossus,  the  Goat  Moth,  or  any  of  the 
Scarabee  classics,  can  fail  to  understand  the  fascina- 
tion of  his  pursuits  and  his  absorption  in  them.    He 


196   THE  SCARABEE  MONOGRAPHED 

nothing  sees  the  whole  day  long-,  like  the  gallant 
knight  enthralled  by  the  beautiful  and  merciless  lady 
of  his  heart. 

II. 

Scientific  men  often  seem  to  the  uninitiated  to  be 
seriously  engaged  upon  apparently  trifling  and 
irrelevant  matters.  Isaac  Newton  under  the  apple-tree 
was  probably  blowing  dandelion  "  clocks."  Sir 
Francis  Galten — to  take  a  modern  instance — used  to 
walk  about  the  streets  of  London  pricking  a  piece  of 
paper  with  a  pin.  He  was  collecting  statistics  of 
people's  eyes,  noses,  chins,  according  to  a  method 
invented  by  himself  for  the  foundations  of  the  new 
science  of  eugenics.  And  so  a  zoologist,  having  com- 
pleted a  charming  book  on  the  little  sea-worm,  Coti- 
voluta  roscoffensis,  would  have  you  believe  that  his 
Convohita  problems  involve  the  security  of  the  Empire 
or  the  redemption  of  man.  Perhaps.  But  where  is  the 
worker  who,  confronted,  as  he  often  is,  with  the  point- 
blank  question,  "  What's  the  use  of  your  work  ?  Why 
trouble  to  find  out  if  an  earth-worm  has  a  heart  or 
whether  pigs  have  wings  ?"  has  the  courage  to  reply,  in 
the  sense  of  vulgar  utility  in  which  the  question  is 
put :  "  My  dear  good  sir,  no  earthly  use  at  all.  Good- 
day."  Of  no  more  practical  utility,  that  is,  than,  shall 
we  say,  a  Grecian  urn  or  a  lyric  by  Colonel  Lovelace. 

That,  on  occasion,  his  labours  are  of  service  to  the 


THE  SCARABEE  MONOGRAPHED   197 

community  is  a  fact  sufficiently  brought  home  to  most 
of  us  recently,  when  his  knowledge  of  the  structure, 
life-history,  and  habits  of  such  common  and  danger- 
ous enemies  to  health  as  the  housefly,  the  flea,  and  the 
louse,  has  been  at  the  disposal  of  those  responsible  for 
the  health  of  troops  in  the  field  and  of  non-com- 
batants at  home.  But  economic  zoology  is  only  a 
bypath  in  the  multifarious  labours  of  the  Scarabee, 
and  perhaps  it  would  be  less  presumptuous  for  him  to 
adopt  as  his  motto  and  justification  Laurence  Sterne's 
witty  remark  that  "  where  the  heart  leaps  out  before 
the  understanding  it  saves  the  judgment  a  world  of 
trouble." 

His  affections  are  distributed  over  the  whole  Animal 
Kingdom.  To  the  pious  Scarabee,  no  animal  is  so 
mean  or  so  minute  as  not  to  attract  his  respectful 
attention.  Anything  with  legs,  a  pulsating  vacuole, 
a  waving  tentacle,  is  sufficient  to  awake  responsive 
chords.  It  would  warm  the  cockles  of  the  coldest 
heart  to  hear  the  Ichneumonidas  specialist  refer  affec- 
tionately to  the  "  Iks,"  or  the  expert  Conchologist 
smilingly  pronounce  "  Strombs."  The  blind  Huber, 
who  by  the  aid  of  his  devoted  assistant  laid  the 
foundations  of  all  our  knowledge  of  the  bees'  com- 
munity, regarded  bees  with  something  more  than  mere 
affection,  we  are  told.  "  Beaucoups  de  gens  aiment 
les  abeilles,"  says  Gelieu,  "  je  n'ai  vu  personne  qui  les 
aima  mediocrement.    On  se  passione  pour  elles." 


igS   THE  SCARABEE  MONOGRAPHED 

Recollecting,  perhaps,  the  sentiment  expressed  by 
Boyle,  that  notJiing  can  be  unworthy  of  investigation 
by  man  that  was  not  unworthy  of  being  created  by 
God,  a  member  of  the  wealthy  Rothschild  family  is  at 
the  present  moment  the  foremost  authority  on  the 
Siphonaptera,  a  name  which  polite  students  give  to 
fleas.  In  the  lay  mind  the  flea  is  only  a  joke — and 
always  one  which  must  be  cracked.  But,  "  pour  les 
vrai  savans,"  he  is  a  serious  and  very  attractive  study 
in  comparative  anatomy,  bionomics,  and  metamor- 
phosis. Even  lice  have  never  lacked  students.  Henry 
Denny  monographed  the  British  species  as  early  as 
1842.  The  "  Monographia  Anopluorum  Britanniae  "  is 
a  very  curious  old  book,  concluding  witli  a  quotation 
from  the  91st  Psalm:  "These  all  wait  upon  Thee 
that  Thou  mayest  give  them  their  meat  in  due 
season." 

Good  Sir  Thomas  Browne  said  that  he  could  digest 
a  salad  gathered  in  a  churchyard  as  easily  as  one  from 
a  garden.  "  At  the  sight  of  Viper  or  Toad,"  he  adds, 
"  I  And  in  me  no  desire  to  take  up  a  stone  and  destroy 
them."  Every  Scarabee  would  like  to  shake  his  hand 
for  saying  that.  And  yet  some  women  there  are  who 
would  prefer  Lady  Godiva's  ordeal  to  a  struggle  with 
a  mouse  in  a  closed  room.  Oliver  Goldsmith  owned 
to  an  "  invincible  aversion  to  caterpillars."  Ambrose 
Pare,  the  father  of  modern  surgery,  mentions  the  case 
of  a  man  who  always  fainted  at  the  sight  of  an  eel. 


THE  SCARABEE  MONOGRAPHED   199 

There  are  four  or  five  pages  in  Victor  Hugo's  "  Les 
Travailleurs  de  la  Mcr "  spent  in  libelling  medusae 
and  cuttlefish. 

HI. 

If  we  are  to  arrive  at  the  very  citadel  of  the 
Scarabee's  soul,  it  now  becomes  necessary  to  proceed 
with  circumspection.  He  is  a  wary  animal,  particu- 
larly over  matters  relating  to  the  soul,  the  existence  of 
which  he  will  probably  deny,  while  the  heart  he  does 
not  care  to  discuss  except  as  the  organ  of  circulation. 
So,  having  caught  your  hare,  treat  him  gently,  smooth 
out  his  pelage,  win  his  confidence,  and  incredible 
revelations  shall  follow.  The  learned  old  gentleman 
who  is  preparing  a  catalogue  of  the  Chalcididae,  you 
imagined  was  engrossed  merely  in  nomenclature, 
chastotaxy,  and  other  technical  matters.  He  is  really 
a  glutton  for  form  and  colour  in  the  insect  world.  The 
vision  of  a  nervous  or  vascular  system,  or  the 
musculature  of  a  limb,  pleases  the  anatomist's  eye 
almost  as  much  as  it  satisfies  his  intellectual  curiosity. 
"  Isn't  it  nice  ?"  he  will  say  to  you,  his  eyes  ablaze 
with  pleasure. 

Alfred  Russel  Wallace  wrote  of  his  young  days  that 
he  possessed  a  strong  desire  to  know  the  causes  of 
things,  a  great  love  of  beauty  in  form  and  colour,  and 
a  considerable  but  not  excessive  desire  for  order  and 
arrangement  in  whatever  he  had  to  do.     Character- 


200   THE  SCARABEE  MONOGRAPHED 

istically  enough,  naturalists  cherish  a  keen  delight  in 
those  colour  patterns  and  symmetrical  arrangements 
of  parts  that  can  be  drawn  with  set-square  and  com- 
passes— the  radiate  forms  of  starfish,  sea-urchins,  and 
medusae,  or  the  exquisite  bilateral  symmetry  of  Nereis 
and  a  hundred  other  beautiful  sea-worms.  They  may 
not  be  versed  in  chioroscuro  and  the  principles  of 
composition,  but  the  essential  thing  they  have  :  the 
artist's  love  of  beauty  in  form  and  colour — love  with- 
out which,  as  Heine  says,  the  sun  will  only  measure  so 
many  miles  in  diameter,  the  flowers  will  only  be  classi- 
fied by  the  number  of  their  stamens,  and  the  water  will 
be  merely  wet. 

The  devotion  of  the  naturalist  to  his  work  is  cer- 
tainly the  chief  salient  in  his  character.  Enthusiasm 
with  him  is  always  at  boiling-point — much  to  the 
irritation  of  those  less  well  endowed  with  nervous 
energy !  It  is  thrilling  to  read  of  the  celebrated 
Bonnet  of  Geneva  (who  discovered  parthenogenesis  in 
animals)  watching  a  plant  louse  from  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning  until  seven  in  the  evening,  or  of  the 
superhuman  labours  of  Swammerdam,  who  ransacked 
earth,  air,  and  water  for  insects,  and  who  often  spent 
whole  days  in  cleaning  the  fat  from  a  single  caterpillar 
in  order  to  be  better  able  to  study  its  anatomy. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  would  doubtless  have  asked, 
before  giving  rein  to  his  praise  of  Bonnet,  if  he  could 
play  the  flute  or  take  a  hand  at  cards.     Even  less 


THE  SCARABEE  MONOGRAPHED   201 

whimsical  critics  would  be  glad,  I  fancy,  if  it  could  be 
said  that  Swammerdam  once  shouted  "  Damn  the 
caterpillar,"  and  went  and  got  a  glass  of  ale.  Most 
laymen  would  lose  their  patience  with  the  great 
French  zoologist,  Lacepede,*  who  continued  to  write 
his  "  L'Histoire  des  Poissons  "  during  the  most  dis- 
turbed period  of  the  French  Revolution.  During  this 
present  Armageddon,  many  a  Scarabee's  head  is  still 
bent  over  his  dissecting  dish  when  the  milkman  comes 
round  in  the  morning. 

Listen,  too,  to  the  ominous  opening  of  an  obituary 
notice  which  appeared  a  few  years  ago  in  the  Scara- 
bee^s  Monthly  Magazine: 

"  Twenty  years  too  late  for  his  scientific  reputation, 
after  having  done  an  amount  of  injury  to  Entomology 
almost  inconceivable  in  its  magnitude,  Francis  Walker 
has  passed  from  us." 

And  yet,  to  the  truly  philosophic  mind,  why  should 
fishes  be  any  less  interesting  than  revolutions,  and 
indeed  why  not  undertake  the  castigation  of  a  criminal 
like  Mr.  Walker  with  as  much  ferocious  enthusiasm  as 
other  folk— with  other  enthusiasms — employ  to  plead 
for  a  National  Theatre  or  Food  Reform  ? 

Enthusiasm  for  a  great  cause,  we  know  from  the 
copybooks,  is  a  noble  sentiment,  and  enthusiasm  even 
for  worms,  insects,  or  somebody's  patent  pills  has  a 

*  Lacepcde's  interests  were,  however,  quite  wide,  and  he 
published  a  general  history  of  Europe  in  eighteen  volumes. 


202   THE  SCARABEE  MONOGRAPHED 

"  je  ne  sais  quoi  "  that  is  divine.  I  admit  that  at 
times — for  example  to  hear  an  odonatologist  (i.e.,  a 
student  of  the  science  which  treats  of  dragonflies!) 
exclaim,  with  the  emphasis  of  real  emotion,  "  There  is 
something  radically  wrong  with  our  conception  of  the 
radial  sector"  (a  small  vein  in  the  dragonfly's  wing) — 
one  reflects  sadly  that  enthusiasm  of  any  kind  must  be 
bought  with  a  price,  and  there  are  plenty  of  naturalists 
who  have  gladly  paid  it — in  the  loss  of  health  and 
eyesight,  in  the  sacrifice  of  their  wealth,  their  pro- 
fession, and  even  their  domestic  happiness  (one  has 
but  to  read  the  lives  of  naturalists  to  see  this),  and 
nearly  all  have  surrendered  voluntarily  or  involun- 
tarily almost  all  other  vital  interests.  Charles  Darwin 
was  bound  to  admit  that  towards  the  close  of  his  life 
all  his  early  love  of  art,  poetry,  and  music  had 
evaporated.    Surely  here  is  the  supreme  sacrifice. 


IV. 
Even  when  due  allowance  is  made  for  the  dazzling 
attractions  of  biological  research,  it  must  be  confessed 
that  the  researcher  frequently  takes  himself  and  his 
work  with  an  almost  portentous  seriousness.  When 
the  Scarabee  bends  his  doting  head  over  the  ant  heap 
or  the  microscope,  one  almost  expects  to  see  signs  in 
the  sky.  The  placid  assertion  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,  in 
"  The  Animated  Nature,"  that  Natural  History  is  the 


THE  SCARABEE  MONOGRAPHED   203 

occupation  of  the  idle  and  speculative  rather  than  of 
the  busy  and  ambitious,  is  a  grievous  error  in  his  eyes. 
In  the  field  of  natural  history,  nowadays  at  all  events, 
the  busy  and  ambitious  may  make  great  reputations — 
they  may  even  come  to  sit  on  Committees  and  make 
presidential  addresses,  and  receive  what  has  been 
happily  called  "  the  anxious  civilities  of  the  undis- 
tinguished." 

There  come  moments,  I  fear,  when  the  heart  fails 
even  the  most  courageous  essayist  who  has  undertaken 
to  defend  Scarabees.  For  the  most  part,  they  are  fine 
fellows — men  with  the  single  eye  and  the  whole  body, 
full  of  the  glow  and  light  of  a  grand  enthusiasm.  But 
a  few  there  are  whom  no  counsel  would  put  into  the 
witness-box  without  a  qualm.  Yet,  in  the  belief  that  a 
just  tribunal  will  save  the  city  for  the  sake  of  those 
righteous  ones,  I  intend  to  present  all  the  available 
evidence. 

Your  really  god-forsaken  Scarabee,  then,  spends  his 
life  in  dotting  i's  and  crossing  t's,  in  repeating  over 
animals  their  Latin  names  like  magic  incantations,  in 
totting  up  lists  of  the  species  that  occur  in  his  district. 
He  is  obsessed  by  the  cult  of  the  card  index,  by  a 
mania  for  order  and  arrangement.  He  rivals  Mr. 
Gradgrind  in  his  desire  for  facts — facts  swallowed 
with  the  same  unwinking  voracity  as  a  crocodile 
swallows  bricks.  It  thrills  him  to  know  that  in  the 
male  flea  there  is  one  abdominal  nervous  ganglion  less 


204   THE  SCARABEE  MONOGRAPHED 

than  in  the  female — without  necessarily  wishing  to 
understand  the  reason  why.  A  Rossia  discovered  in  a 
rock-pool  makes  a  red-letter  day  in  his  Calendar 
because  the  iind  "  extends  its  range" — yet  you  may  be 
sure  he  has  caught  no  inkling  of  the  factors  governing 
the  distribution  of  cuttlefish.  "  It  is  my  business," 
says  he,  "  merely  to  record  the  facts,"  hating  to  suggest 
a  theory  of  generalization  through  fear  of  being 
caught  out  by  an  exception  to  the  rule.  "  Accuracy  " 
to  him  is  a  holy  word,  pronounced  with  eyes  lowered 
and  the  palms  crossed  over  the  breast;  "  imaginative" 
is  a  term  of  opprobrium ;  poetry  means  long  hair ;  the 
summer  solstice  is  nothing  but  the  probable  time  for 
the  emergence  of  some  insect  from  its  cocoon,  and 
Coniston  or  Chamouni  he  recalls  merely  as  good 
treacling  localities.  Undignified  jousts  are  not  infre- 
quent :  "  He  says  that  it  is  '  unthinkable '  that  Carabus 
clathratus  should  occur  in  my  parish,"  snarls  a 
worsted  Knight  of  the  Pin,  "  but  it  is  conceivable  that 
that  depends  upon  the  thinker."  He  is  a  specialist : 
mention  an  Acmaca  to  an  authority  on  the  Helicidae 
and  he  yawns.  To  a  lepidopterist,  the  hymcnoptera 
are  of  no  more  interest  than  the  cuneiform  texts  to  a 
third-form  boy.  This  type  of  Scarabee  crouches  over 
the  group  of  animals  selected  for  study  like  a  dog 
growling  over  a  bone :  on  the  approach  of  a  rival 
student  there  is  trouble.  "  It  is  so  nice  to  feel," 
remarked  an  ingenuous  youth  of  about  sixty  summers, 


THE  SCARABEE   MONOGRAPHED       205 

"  that  you  know  more  of  one  particular  subject  than 
anybody  else  in  the  world  ! " 

The  specialist  is  a  very  extraordinary  person.  He 
will  tell  you — and  he  never  tires  of  saying  it,  with  an 
incomprehensible  pride  in  the  devastating  infinity  of 
the  Kosmos — that  a  single  organism  requires  for 
perfect  elucidation  more  than  the  available  grey 
matter  of  the  human  brain.  And,  summoning  an 
intellectual  courage  of  which  few  of  us  can  boast,  he 
lowers  himself  deep  into  the  mine  of  knowledge,  happy 
if,  after  an  industrious  life,  he  has  dug  out  a  few 
lumps  of  information  about  a  crab  or  a  fly  in  a  mine- 
field which  stretches  from  here  to  beyond  the  stars. 

Verily,  only  a  specialist  can  understand  "  with  what 
scope  God  builds  the  worm." 

But  let  me  warn  the  reckless  critic  that  any  "old 
fossil "  may  on  occasion  suddenly  turn  on  his  traducers 
and  confound  them  with  an  attitude  which  takes  the 
heart  by  storm.  A  very  old  naturalist — a  veteran 
Scarabee,  in  his  day  guilty  of  almost  every  Scarabee 
crime — found  it  in  his  heart  to  say  to  me  one  sunny 
morning  in  Devon  :  "  I  love  the  bees,  the  poppies,  and 
the  swallows.  'The  beautiful  swallows — be  kind  to 
them,' "    He  quoted  Richard  Jefferies. 

Few  indeed  realize  with  what  scope  God  builds  an 
occasional  Scarabee. 


1915- 


NEW  METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY* 

Natural  History  no  longer  consists  in  the  casual 
observations  made  on  a  country  ramble  or  a  parochial 
visit  by  even  so  acute  an  observer  as  Gilbert  White. 
White  was  an  amiable  country  parson  with  a  very  real 
love  of  wild  animal  life.  But  "  The  Natural  History 
of  Selborne"  is  not  a  scientific  work.  To-day, 
Natural  History  is  a  science,  so  that  judged  by  the 
high  standard  of  exactness  lately  introduced  into 
the  study,  White's  book  is  not  even  Natural  History — 
it  must  be  classed  in  the  literature  of  country  life. 

A  fundamental  change  has  been  brought  about  by 
the  fact  that  the  modern  student  of  animal  life  is  not 
just  an  angler,  a  gunner,  or  a  collector.  He  is  a 
psychologist.  And  now  that  the  change  is  made  it 
seems  natural  enough  that  the  naturalist  with  the  life, 
habits,  instincts,  and  intelligence  of  animals  as  his 
province  should  be  primarily  a  psychologist  trained  to 
distinguish  what  he  sees  from  what  he  infers. 

Reform  has  come  none  too  soon.  The  contributors 
nf  so-called  wild-life  articles  to  our  popular  magazines 

♦  Reprinted  from  The  World's  Work. 
207 


2o8      METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY 

must  be  held  mainly  responsible  for  the  prevalence  of 
a  false  sentimentalism  about  the  lives  of  the  wild 
things.  Bears,  cats,  frogs,  mice,  insects — all  are 
credited  with  the  emotions,  the  sensations,  and  even 
the  faculties  of  human  beings.  Like  Oliver  Gold- 
smith's nightingales  in  that  curious  miscellany  of  facts 
and  fancies,  "  The  Animated  Nature,"  they  "  talk  and 
tell  each  other  tales,"  or  they  are  made  to  suffer  a 
pathetic  death  in  a  snowstorm.  Even  the  complex 
sentiment  of  justice  has  been  lightly  attributed  to 
rooks,  because  these  noisy  and  troublesome  birds  have 
been  seen  bullying  another  of  their  own  kind. 


"Literary  Naturalists" 

The  rigour  of  a  training  in  psychology  would  soon 
convince  these  "literary  naturalists,"  as  they  have 
been  somewhat  contemptuously  called,  of  the  harmful- 
ness  of  their  writing — which  is  innocent  enough,  as 
"  fairy  tales,"  but  which  becomes  dangerous,  particu- 
larly to  youthful  "  Nature  students,"  when  palmed  off 
as  Natural  History.  Even  Homer  nods.  For  amid 
the  close  reasoning  of  "  The  Origin  of  Species  "  it  is 
surprising  to  read  Darwin's  unwarrantable  inference 
that  dogs  have  vivid  dreams  and  powers  of  im- 
agination because  they  yelp  and  struggle  in  their 
sleep. 

An  excellent  illustration  of  the  danger  of  humaniz- 


METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY      209 

ing  animals  is  given  by  Professor  M.  F.  Washburn  in 
her  book,  "  The  Animal  Mind."  She  takes  the  case  of 
the  angry  wasp.  Now  anger  in  our  consciousness  "  is 
composed  of,"  or  as  some  may  prefer  to  say,  is  accom- 
panied by,  sensations  of  a  quickened  heart  beat, 
altered  breathing,  a  change  in  muscular  tension,  and 
^o  on.  But  the  circulation  of  the  "  blood  "  (a  sort  of 
.efined  chyle)  in  the  wasp  is  fundamentally  different 
from  that  of  vertebrates.  The  wasp,  too,  has  no  lungs, 
but  breathes  through  delicate  ramifying  tubes,  called 
tracheae,  while  all  its  muscles  are  attached  internally 
because  its  skeleton  is  everywhere  external.  What, 
then,  must  "  anger  "  be  like  in  a  wasp's  consciousness, 
if  it  has  one.    I  leave  the  "  literary  naturalists  "  to  say. 


Animal  Anecdotes 

It  is  wise  not  only  to  refrain  from  using  anthropo- 
morphic language  in  our  animal  studies,  but  also  to 
resist  the  temptation  to  relate  an  anecdote.  The 
anecdote  is  no  longer  admitted  as  evidence  in  Natural 
History.  It  is  an  armchair  product.  The  psycho- 
logist knows  too  well  the  man  who  begins,  "  I  once  had 
a  dog  .  .  ."  or,  it  may  be,  a  pet  canary  bird,  and  while 
he  takes  a  long  pull  from  his  pipe  recalls  from  the 
recesses  of  his  mind  a  casual  and  therefore  dangerous 
observation — perhaps  made  years  ago  and  never  com- 
mitted   to    paper — by    an    "ntrained    and    probably 

14 


210      METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY 

prejudiced  observer  who  is  now  labouring  under  the 
desire  to  tell  a  good  story. 

Romanes'  "Animal  Intelligence,"  still  in  this 
country  regarded  as  the  chief  work  on  the  subject  of 
which  it  treats,  is  almost  wholly  anecdotal. 

But  by  the  progressive  naturalist  who  is  carrying  on 
methodical  research  along  psychological  lines,  both 
the  casual  observation  and  the  anecdote  are  ruled  out 
of  court,  although  he  is  not  above  catching  an  idea  or 
a  suggestion  from  either  and  making  it  a  basis  for 
future  research. 

A  glance  at  the  papers  now  being  published,  some 
of  them  in  new  journals  devoted  to  the  science,  will 
convey  a  useful  impression  of  the  style  of  the  work 
which  is  being  done  both  in  the  field  and  also  by  the 
sea-shore  and  in  the  laboratory. 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  titles  of  some  of  these  research 
papers  :  "  The  Life  and  Behaviour  of  the  Cuckoo  " ; 
"  A  Comparison  of  the  Reactions  of  a  Species  of 
Surface  Isopod  with  those  of  a  Cave  Species"; 
"  Oscillations  of  Littoral  Animals  Synchronous  with 
the  Movements  of  the  Tide";  "An  Experimental 
Determination  of  the  Speed  of  the  Migration  of 
Salmon  in  the  Columbia  River " ;  "  The  Sense  of 
Hearing  in  Frogs";  "The  Role  of  Vision  in  the 
Mental  Life  of  the  Mouse." 


METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY      211 

How  THE  Study  is  Carried  On 

It  will  be  seen  that  naturalists  are  studying  reac- 
tions, the  senses  of  hearing,  vision,  and  so  on.  They 
are  also  making  careful  comparisons  of  learning 
powers  and  habit  formations.  Scrupulous  accuracy  is 
observed  in  recording  times  and  distances.  Tables  are 
drawn  up,  curves  plotted.  The  work  is  given  a  mathe- 
matical flavour  whenever  and  wherever  necessary  and 
feasible. 

Effort  is  always  directed  towards  obtaining  some 
measure  of  experimental  control.  In  any  case,  careful 
consideration  is  given  by  the  author  when  discussing 
his  problem  to  the  probable  influences  of  the  condi- 
tions on  his  results.  In  the  days  before  this  reforma- 
tion experiment  was  seldom  used. 

An  observer  might  perform  an  al  fresco  experiment 
for  example  with  the  frog  by  removing  it  from  its 
breeding-pond  and  then  recording  its  return,  on  this 
evidence  submitting  a  case  for  the  existence  of  a 
homing  faculty  in  Amphibia.  Such  an  experiment 
and  a  similar  deduction  therefrom  have  indeed  been 
made.  Yet  to  be  worthy  of  consideration  the  record 
of  the  experimenter  should  contain  data  as  to  the 
depth  and  the  surface  area  of  the  pond,  the 
meteorological  conditions  at  the  time  of  the  experi- 
ment, the  number  of  animals  released  and  the  number 
recovered,   the  exact   distances   to  which   they   were 


212      METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY 

removed,  and  so  on.  Even  then  it  has  been  shown 
that  dangerous  pitfalls  await  the  unwary,  although  I 
may  add  that  after  all  in  all  probability  a  small 
homing  faculty  docs  exist,  consisting  in  a  slight  know- 
ledge of  the  topography  of  the  surroundings  of  the 
pond. 

The  introduction  of  careful  experiment  by  trained 
psychologists  has  revolutionized  (a  big  word,  I  know) 
Natural  History,  and  psychology,  too,  for  that  matter. 
Of  course  experiment  is  apt  to  be  artificial.  Yet  field 
work  becomes  unwieldy  and  inconclusive  through  lack 
of  control.  The  ideal  is  to  combine  the  methods  of  the 
laboratory  with  those  of  the  field  naturalist.  To  the 
work  of  the  field  is  brought  the  critical  interpretations 
of  the  psychologist,  to  the  work  in  the  laboratory  the 
sympathy  of  the  lover  of  wild-life,  so  that  whether  the 
naturalist  takes  experiment  into  the  field  or  attempts 
to  bring  natural  conditions  into  the  laboratory,  his 
aim  is  to  make  an  exact  study  of  the  behaviour  of 
animals  in  environment  as  natural  as  is  compatible 
with  experimental  control. 

American  and  French  Workers 
It  is  in  America  that  most  of  this  valuable  regenera- 
tive work  has  been  carried  out.  Dr.  R.  M.  Yerkes,  of 
Harvard,  is  a  pioneer,  who  has  opened  up  many  new 
fields  of  investigation  and  drawn  together  a  number  of 
enthusiastic  students  who  are  following  in  his  foot- 


METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY     213 

steps.  America  can  boast  (as  has  been  justly  claimed 
for  her)  that  she  has  made  it  worth  while  for  Europe 
to  take  account  of  the  science  she  has  fostered. 

In  France,  the  country  which  produced  Reaumur, 
Ruber,  and  Fabre,  a  band  of  workers  have  gathered 
around  Georges  Bohn  at  the  Paris  Institution  Generale 
Psychologique,  while  in  Germany,  Switzerland,  and 
Russia,  adherents  to  the  new  Natural  History  may  be 
found  at  work.  But  in  England,  where  a  prejudice 
exists  against  American  scientific  work,  the  movement 
hangs  fire.  No  one  is  taking  it  up.  Yet  I  believe  it 
originated  in  England  with  a  paper  by  Professor 
Lloyd  Morgan,  of  Bristol,  on  the  pecking  instincts  of 
the  chick. 

In  not  adopting  Professor  Lloyd  Morgan's  attitude 
and  applying  his  methods  and  developing  them  with 
other  animals,  English  naturalists  lost  the  opportunity 
of  doing  a  signal  service  to  the  science  of  Natural 
History. 

A  great  amount  of  investigation  is  required  to  be 
done.  Not  only  must  old  material  forming  our 
present  knowledge  of  Natural  History  be  worked  over 
again,  but  the  present  boundaries  of  that  knowledge 
must  be  extended,  particularly  among  such  animals  as 
jellyfish,  sea-anemones,  sea-urchins,  sea-worms,  and 
other  sea  animals,  the  account  of  which  in  almost  any 
standard  work  of  Zoology  is  restricted  to  a  descrip- 
tion of  their  anatomy,  morphology,  and  physiology. 


214      METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY 

and  includes  even  the  dull  and  difficult  subject  of  their 
nomenclature. 

To  the  enthusiast  in  animal  behaviour  with  an 
appetite  for  research  the  forests  of  Brazil  could 
scarcely  offer  anything  more  tempting.  Indeed  it  is 
an  embarras  de  richesses.  Research  students  are  com- 
paratively few.  If  only  it  were  possible  to  divert  the 
untiring  energy  of  collectors,  or  some  of  those 
naturalists  engaged  in  totting  up  fauna  lists  or  mak- 
ing new  species,  I  am  convinced  that  similar  industry 
and  perseverencc  in  the  study  of  live  Natural  History 
would  be  rewarded  with  many  valuable  discoveries. 

The  Harvest 

The  labourers  may  be  few,  but  the  harvest  is  already 
beginning  to  come  in.  Even  the  most  popular  and  the 
best  explored  study  of  ornithology  is  being  made  to 
yield,  wherever  tapped,  all  kinds  of  important  infor- 
mation. Our  British  birds  have  been  studied  for  years 
by  sportsmen,  naturalists,  and  Nature  students,  and  it 
has  been  too  readily  supposed  that  we  know  all  that 
there  is  to  be  known  about  so  homely  a  subject.  Yet 
here  there  is  at  least  one  large  lacuna  which  cannot  be 
filled  in  with  the  rest  of  the  map. 

In  spite  of  the  hundreds  of  bird  books  issuing  from 
the  press,  it  is  very  rare  to  find  in  any  of  them  details 
of  the  constructing  of  the  nest  by  the  parent  birds 
from  day  to  day,  though  of  course  they  will  contain 


METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY      215 

descriptions  of  its  shape,  materials  of  which  it  is  built, 
the  size  and  colour  of  the  eggs.  The  reason  is  the 
simple  and  humiliating  one  of  ignorance.  Speaking 
generally,  we  do  not  know  how  the  bird  builds  its 
nest,  how  it  first  begins  with  a  few  stray  wisps,  swing- 
ing in  the  wind,  nor  how  it  goes  on  to  mould  the  shape 
and  finally,  perhaps,  to  add  a  roof. 

Nest-Building 

F.  H.  Herrick  has  written  a  good  account  of  the 
nest-building  of  several  common  American  birds.  His 
work  is  illustrated  by  tables  showing  the  building 
activity  of  the  parent  birds  and  diagrams  of  the  con- 
struction of  the  nest  at  different  stages.  Although  the 
Baltimore  oriole  builds  such  a  firm  and  durable  nest 
that  feats  of  engineering  skill  have  been  attributed  to 
it,  it  is  significant  that  Herrick  finds  no  marked 
exhibition  of  intelligence.  The  oriole  does  no 
deliberate  weaving,  no  deliberate  tying  of  knots.  The 
whole  of  its  behaviour  during  the  nest-building,  he 
thinks,  is  mechanical,  and  its  wonderful  nest  is  pro- 
duced by  the  activity  of  stereotyped  instinctive 
actions. 

If  this  be  true,  the  oriole's  performance  increases 
rather  than  diminishes  our  wonder.  Herrick's  attitude 
is  characteristic  of  modern  work,  and  illustrates  the 
principle  of  interpretation  known  as  Lloyd  Morgan's 
Canon,  which  says  that  we  ought  never  to  interpret  an 


2i6      METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY 

action  as  the  result  of  a  higher  faculty  if  it  can  be  as 
well  interpreted  as  the  outcome  of  the  exercise  of  a 
faculty  lower  in  the  psychological  scale.  Loeb  has 
compared  the  reactions  of  animals  to  light,  gravity, 
and  so  forth,  with  the  reactions  of  plants  to  similar 
stimuli.  For  example,  at  the  time  of  their  nuptial 
flight  bees  are  so  attracted  to  light  that  by  letting  the 
light  fall  into  the  observation  hive  from  above  the  bees 
crowd  on  the  roof  towards  it  and  are  so  prevented 
from  leaving  the  hive  through  the  exit  at  the  lower 
end.  He  calls  this  heliotropism,  and  he  neatly  describes 
these  bees  as  positively  heliotropic. 

If  one  eye  in  the  Mourning  Cloak  butterfly 
(Vanessa  antiopa)  is  blackened  it  moves  in  a  circle 
and  behaves  as  if  one  eye  were  in  the  shade.  Curiously 
enough,  insects  with  both  eyes  blackened  as  a  rule  fly 
straight  up  into  the  sky,  and  Axenfeld  suggests  that 
this  is  to  be  explained  on  the  supposition  that  light 
penetrates  the  integument  of  the  head  and  the  insect 
behaves  positively. 

The  Theory  of  Tropisms 

These  are  but  a  few  of  the  observations  which  lend 
support  to  Loeb's  theory  of  tropisms  and  which  have 
persuaded  Bethe  into  the  belief  that  all  the  complex 
social  behaviour  of  the  Hymenoptera  is  a  question  of 
reflex  action  without  consciousness.    This  is  a  return 


METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY      217 

to  the  automatism  of  Descartes.  Yet  Bathe's  work 
with  bees  serves  as  a  useful  antidote  to  the  florid 
manner  of  M.  Maeterlinck,  who  has  been  termed  "  a 
scientist." 

A  fascinating  volume  in  Natural  History  will  one 
day  be  devoted  to  Homing  in  Animals,  or  as  it  is 
more  precisely  termed  "  Distant  Orientation."  Snails 
return  to  the  same  retreat  beneath  a  stone  or  in  a 
crevice  of  the  garden  wall  after  their  nocturnal  pere- 
grinations. The  land-crabs  of  the  family  Gecarcinidce 
advance  downwards  from  the  hills  to  the  sea  in  great 
hosts,  clambering  over  obstacles  and  even  invading 
houses  in  their  annual  march  to  the  sea  for  procreative 
purposes.  The  salmon  returns  to  the  same  river  to 
breed,  the  toad  and  newt  return  to  the  same  pond, 
birds  to  the  same  nesting-site,  while  whales,  bats,  and 
other  mammals  carry  on  extensive  migrations  about 
which  very  little  has  yet  been  discovered. 


Visual  Memory 

But  the  historic  problem  of  homing  in  ants,  bees, 
and  wasps  is  the  most  thorny  and  perplexing  of  all. 
After  long  experiment  with  bees,  in  which  the  problem 
is  complicated  by  the  power  of  flight,  Bethe  gave  up 
the  problem  as  insoluble.  Lord  Avebury  years  ago 
took  bees  from  a  hive  on  the  sea-coast,  marked  them, 
and  set  them  loose  at  sea.    But  none  returned,  though 


2i8      METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY 

llie  distance  was  less  than  their  usual  range  of  travel 
on  land. 

So  Buttel-Reepen  argues  that  visual  memory  will 
explain  all  the  facts.  But  Beth6  argues  against  the 
vision  hypothesis  that  if  the  entrance  to  a  beehive  be 
raised  or  lowered  30  centimetres  the  bees  on  returning 
will  crowd  to  the  old  place,  and  it  is  sometimes  hours 
or  days  before  they  adjust  themselves  to  the  new  con- 
ditions. 

The  same  author  took  bees  in  a  box  a  considerable 
distance  from  the  hive.  On  being  released  they  flew 
straight  up  into  the  air,  but  many  dropped  back  into 
the  box  and  only  a  part  of  the  number  found  their 
way  back  to  the  hive.  If  the  box,  during  their  ascent, 
be  moved  only  a  few  centimetres,  the  bees  drop  back 
into  the  place  where  the  box  formerly  was  and  take  no 
notice  of  the  box  in  the  new  position.  If  they  used 
vision,  he  argues,  they  would  have  seen  the  box  and 
settled  on  it. 

Do  Bees  "Home"? 

It  is  evident  that  if  bees  do  "home"  by  visual 
memory,  their  visual  memory  must  be  very  different 
from  ours.  This  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  when  the 
difference  in  the  structure  of  the  compound  facetted 
insect  eye  from  the  vertebrate  eye  is  taken  into  con- 
sideration. In  a  recent  book,  which  will  one  day 
become  a  classic,  Professor  G.  W.  and  Mrs.  Peckham 


METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY      219 

show  that  solitary  wasps  certainly  depend  on  sight 
and  landmarks. 

The  puzzle  has  taxed  the  ingenuity  of  experimenters 
for  years,  and  rarely  a  year  passes  without  fresh 
contributions  to  the  subject. 

Ingenuity  of  experiments  is  strikingly  exhibited  in 
a  research  by  Dr.  Yerkes  on  the  sense  of  hearing  in 
frogs.  A  frog — that  martyr  to  research — was  placed 
in  a  saddleback  holder,  so  that  its  long  hind  limbs 
hung  down  free  and  limp,  and  any  movement  of  the 
legs  in  response  to  stimulus  could  be  read  in  milli- 
metres on  a  scale  attached.  In  a  careful  study  of  frogs 
in  the  field,  Yerkes  could  obtain  no  visible  motor 
reactions  whatever  indicating  a  consciousness  of 
sounds.  This  would  have  satisfied  the  old-fashioned 
naturalist.  He  would  have  expressed  the  opinion 
that  frogs  are  deaf. 

But  Yerkes  perceived  that  in  certain  circumstances 
the  frog,  though  perfectly  conscious  of  sound,  might 
inhibit  its  reactions  to  it.  And  this  he  proved  to  be 
the  case.  For  though  no  response  is  given  by  the 
frog  in  the  saddleback  holder  to  auditory  stimulus 
alone,  yet  a  marked  exaggeration  in  responses  to 
tactual  stimuli  was  obtained  if  the  tactual  stimuli 
were  applied  simultaneously  with  the  auditory. 


220      METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY 

The  Study  of  Functions 

A  great  imi^etus  to  morphology  and  anatomy  was 
given  by  Darwin's  "  Origin  of  Species."  A  rush  for 
homologues  set  in  and  other  work  became  neglected. 
But  now  that  the  search  is  beginning  to  flag  and 
silent  workers  are  making  their  burrowings  heard 
beneath  the  foundations  of  the  germ-layer  theory, 
naturalists  are  turning  aside  from  the  great  and  un- 
manageable problems  of  variation,  heredity,  and 
evolution  to  remember  what  they  have  been  inclined 
to  forget,  that  their  specimens  were  once  palpitating 
with  life — with  that  elan  de  vie  which  moves  and,  as 
Bergson  would  say,  moulds  the  anatomical  parts. 

Bearing  this  in  mind  it  is  easy  to  understand  why, 
among  other  things,  investigations  into  a  variety  of 
sense  organs  in  unexpected  and  out-of-the-way  parts 
of  the  animal  kingdom  have  hitherto  usually  stopped 
short  with  an  account  of  their  structure  and  minute 
anatomy,  leaving  their  functions  wholly  conjectural. 
Kreidl  as  long  ago  as  1893  began  the  study  of 
functions  in  these  curious  and  out-of-the-way  sense 
organs  by  provmg  in  a  convincing  and — to  the 
scientific  type  of  mind — a  very  fascinating  manner 
that  the  otocyst,  a  sacklike  organ  at  the  base  of  the 
second  antenna  of  the  prawn,  Palcemon,  and  other 
Crustacea,  open  to  the  sea-water  and,  containing  sand 
grains,    is   really   a   statocyst   by    which    the   animal 


METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY      221 

maintains  its  equilibrium  in  the  sea,  and  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  sense  of  hearing. 

Periodically  the  shrimp  moults  its  skin,  also  with  it 
the  lining  of  the  sacklike  organ,  together  with  its 
contained  sand  grains.  So  that  for  a  time  the  sack  is 
empty,  till  the  new  skin  hardens  and  the  shrimp 
burrows  in  the  sand.  Kreidl  prepared  iron  sand  and 
placed  a  freshly-moulted  Falcemoti  at  the  bottom  of 
the  aquarium,  with  the  result  that  after  a  time  the 
statocysts  became  filled  with  minute  iron  grains 
instead  of  grains  of  silica. 

He  then  brought  a  magnet  over  the  shrimp,  and  on 
working  out  his  data  mathematically  he  made  the 
discovery  that  the  shrimp  took  up  a  position  under 
the  influence  of  the  magnet  which  corresponded  with 
the  resultant  force  of  the  pull  of  gravity  and  the  pull 
of  the  magnet.  This  experiment  of  rare  delicacy  and 
refinement  makes  it  clear  that  the  sand  grains,  by 
stimulating  the  specialized  cells  of  the  sense  organ, 
are  a  means  of  informing  the  shrimp  of  its  position  in 
the  water.  Indeed,  if  the  statocysts  are  destroyed  it 
swims  upside  down  as  readily  as  right  side  up. 

The  Crustacea 

The  Crustacea  have  furnished  naturalists  with 
material  for  several  novel  researches  in  behaviour. 
Till  a  few  years  ago  this  rich  field  was  almost  wholly 
unpre-empted.    There  existed  some  vague  information 


222      METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY 

about  the  robber  crab  {Birgus  latro\  which  ate  cocoa- 
nuts  and  climbed  trees.  We  knew  the  Hermit  crabs 
carried  anemones  on  their  whelk  shells  and  the  curious 
little  peacrabs  {Pinywthcres)  lived  in  the  mantle 
cavity  of  mussels    a  fact  known  to  writers  of  antiquity). 

But  detailed  studies  in  these  and  other  curious  and 
complex  instincts  of  Crustaceans  had  still  to  be  made. 
The  Hermit  crab,  whose  odd  economy  attracted  the 
attention  of  George  Henry  Lewes,  and  many  other 
thinkers  before  and  since,  may  sometimes  be  found  in 
a  whelk-shell  in  the  upper  whorls  of  which  lives  a  sea- 
worm  called  'Nereis,  and  there  may  be  in  addition  a 
sea  anemone  on  the  outside  of  the  shell,  the  whole 
forming  an  interesting  combination  in  commensal  life, 
which  requires  careful  w'orking  out  by  a  competent 
observer. 

There  is  a  small  tropical  crab,  called  Melia  tessel- 
lata,  which  carries  a  sea  anemone  in  each  claw,  and 
uses  it  as  an  instrument  for  obtaining  food.  Food 
particles  caught  by  the  tentacles  of  the  anemones  "  are 
removed  and  eaten  by  the  crab,  which  uses  the  long 
walking  legs  of  the  first  pair." 

COMMENSALISM 

Many  of  these  instincts  have  now  been  analyzed 
psychologically.  The  mysterious  phenonema  of 
commensalism  in  animals  are  sufficient  to  stimulate 
the  curiosity  of  the  dullet  intellect,  and  the  psycho- 


METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY      223 

legist  perceives  that  they  raise  many  problems  of 
first-rate  importance  to  animal  psychology. 

Father  Wasmann,  S.J.,  has  devoted  his  energy  to 
commensalism  as  it  occurs  in  ants — and  already  his 
writings  are  becoming  voluminous.  Since  the  dis- 
covery in  ants'  nests  of  aphides — the  "  ant-cows  "  of 
popular  literature — numbers  of  other  insects  of  aU 
orders  have  been  recorded  as  inmates  of  ants'  nests, 
and  myrmecophilism  is  now  a  subject  by  itseH.  The 
list  of  myrmecophilous  insects,  many  of  which  are 
specially  modified  for  life  in  ants'  nests,  now  include 
mites,  beetles,  caterpillars,  springtails,  dipterous  larvae, 
coccidae  (or  scale  insects),  and  orthoptera. 

But  lack  of  space  precludes  the  possibility  of  so 
much  as  mentioning  some  of  the  singular  observations 
Wasmann  has  made  on  the  life  and  behaviour  of  these 
guests  of  the  ant. 

I  could  entertain  the  reader  with  the  work  of  the 
Peckhams  on  courtship  in  spiders  and  the  ridiculous 
attitudes  they  sometimes  assume  under  the  influence 
of  sexual  attractions.  The  naturalist  would  feel  the 
charm  in  many  of  the  experimental  studies  of  Yerkes, 
particularly  in  the  way  in  which  he  settled  the  ques- 
tion "  Do  kittens  instinctively  kill  mice  ?"  He  would 
be  surprised  to  learn  that  the  popular  impression  of 
extensive  imitative  abilities  in  monkeys  has  not  been 
supported  by  experiment,  and  he  would  unquestion- 
ably be  led  on  to  contemplate  some  of  the  highest 


224      METHODS  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY 

problems  in  animal  psychology  suggested  by 
Watson's  extraordinary  work  with  rats.  Watson 
maintains  among  other  things  that  the  rat  possesses 
an  unknown  instinct  by  which  it  obtains  an  awareness 
of  the  direction  of  the  four  points  of  the  compass, 
since  his  animals,  trained  to  traverse  a  labyrinth  of 
narrow  passages  in  a  few  seconds,  had  to  readjust 
themselves  and  partially  re-learn  the  trick  if  the 
labyrinth  of  passages  was  moved  in  toto  through  an 
angle  of  90  degrees. 

But  if  I  have  not  by  now  stimulated  the  reader's 
interest,  I  have  killed  it,  and  the  space  at  my  disposal 
has  drawn  to  an  end. 


1912. 


SOME  CURIOUS  FACTS  IN  THE 
DISTRIBUTION  OF  THE  BRITISH  NEWTS* 

Some  curious  facts  in  the  geographical  distribution 
of  the  three  British  species  of  tailed  amphibians  have 
recently  been  brought  to  light.  Modern  investigations 
have  proved  that  the  well-known  statements  in  regard 
to  this  subject  which  have  been  copied  and  re-copied 
in  almost  all  the  English  works  of  Natural  History, 
to  the  effect  that  the  Greatcrested  Newt  {Molge 
cristatd)  and  the  Common  Newt  (M.  vulgaris)  are 
generally  common,  and  that  the  little  Palmate  Newt 
{M.  ■palmata)  is  very  rare  and  has  only  been  found 
"near  Bridgwater,  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  near 
Reading,"  are  not  only  misleading  but  quite  incorrect. 

The  real  facts,  as  recently  elucidated,  are  these. 
The  Palmate,  so  far  from  being  rare,  is  very  widely 
distributed.  It  is  found  from  Cornwall  to  Sunderland 
and  from  Anglesea  to  the  Isle  of  Wight.  This  con- 
spicuous and  handsome  little  species,  with  webbed 
hind  feet,  is  the  only  species  recorded  from  Cornwall, 
where  it  is  very  common.  In  Devon,  too,  the  Palmate 
can  be  found  in  every   pond  and  roadside  runnel, 

*  Reprinted  from  Knowledge. 

225  1 5 


226    DISTRIBUTION  OF  BRITISH  NEWTS 

while  the  Common  Newt  is  absent,  and  the  Great- 
crested,  until  a  short  time  ago,  was  thought  to  be 
absent  likewise.    Some  few  months  since,  1  discovered 
the  latter  species  in  a  pool  in  North  Devon,  but  before 
that  time  no  authentic  Devonshire  specimen  existed 
in  collections.     In  Somerset  M.  cristata  appears  fre- 
quently, but  is  local,  while  as  far  up  as  Gloucester,  the 
Palmate  begins  to  grow  local  as  well.     Turning  to 
Wales,  it  is  important  to  notice  the  same  conditions 
prevailing  as  those  in  the  S.W.  Peninsula,  viz.,  the 
occurrence  of  the  Palmate  form  to  the  almost  total 
exclusion  of  the  other  two.    As  to  the  rest  of  England 
and    to    Scotland,    the    Palmate    Newt    is    generally 
common  but  local;  it  has  been  recorded  from  a  large 
number  of  counties,  and  also  from  Anglesea,  Bardsea 
Island,  the  Isle  of  Rum,  and  the  Isle  of  Wight ;  there 
are  no  newt  records  cither  from  Lundy  or  the  Scilly 
Islands.     Professor  James  Clark  informs  me  that  he 
has  seen  no  newt  alive  on  the  Scilly  Islands,  but  there 
is,  in  his  possession,  a  specimen  of  the  Palmate  species, 
which  was  captured  by  a  resident  of  St.  Mary's,  near 
Porthellick    Bay.     On   the   other   hand,    Mr.    T.   A. 
Dorrien-Smith,  who  was  good  enough  to  make  careful 
inquiries  for  me,  was  unable  to  find  any  evidence  of 
the  existence  of  newts  on  the  islands.     Ireland  pos- 
sesses   only   one   species    and   that,   contrary    to    all 
expectation,   proves  to  be  M.   vulgaris.     Dr.   R.   F, 
Scharff  has  found  it,  in  its  typical  form,  in  about 


DISTRIBUTION  OF  BRITISH  NEWTS     227 

twenty  localities  N.,  S.,  E.,  and  W.  Reported  occur- 
rences of  two  species  have  always  been  founded  on  the 
sexual  differences  in  the  Common  Newt. 

Fossil  remains  are  very  scanty;  bones,  which  are 
referable  to  the  Greatcrested  species  and  were  dis- 
covered in  the  Forest  Bed,  appear  to  constitute  the 
sole  record.  With  such  conflicting  evidence  as  this,  it 
seems  to  be  quite  impossible  to  decide  which  species 
is,  phylogenetically,  the  oldest.  According  to  the 
evidence  of  palaeontology  Cristata  is  the  oldest, 
according  to  distribution  in  Great  Britain  and  its 
occurrence  on  several  outlying  islands  we  should  be 
led  to  expect  Palmala,  then  Dr.  Scharff's  report  from 
Ireland  arrives  and  makes  the  problem  a  three- 
cornered  one;  for  it  is  safe  to  assume  that,  during  the 
time  of  the  hypothetical  connection  of  Ireland  with 
England,  M.  vulgaris  was  the  only  species  existing, 
as  it  was  the  only  one  to  cross  the  boundary  into 
Ireland.    It  should  therefore  be  the  oldest. 

The  more  remarkable  facts,  in  connection  with  the 
distribution  of  these  little  amphibians,  are  to  follow. 
It  is  now  agreed  on  all  hands  that  M.  fahnata  is 
exceedingly  common  in  Devon  and  Cornwall,  the 
Common  Newt  absent,  and  the  Greatcrested  almosL 
unknown.  But  all  the  older  naturalists  in  the  two 
counties  were  agreed  in  recording  Cristata  and 
Vulgaris,  but  Palmata  only  rarely.  Thus  the  late 
Mr.  Brooking  Rowe,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  E.  E.  Lowe  (a 


328     DISTRIBUTION  OF  BRITISH  NEWTS 

former  curator  of  the  Plymouth  Museum),  which  was 
published  in  the  "  Victoria  C.  Hist.  Devon,"  says : 
"  As  to  the  Smooth  Newt  {M.  vulgaris)  I  am  surprised 
at  what  you  say  (that  it  did  not  occur  in  the  county). 
It  was,  without  question,  the  common  species  some 
years  ago  and  found  everywhere.  1  was  the  first  to 
record  T.  falmatus^  and  found  it  in  a  pond  not  far 
from  here  (Plympton)."  We  are  driven  to  believe, 
eitlier  that  the  older  naturalists  failed  to  distinguish 
the  obvious  differences  in  the  two  species,  or  else,  the 
more  probable  hypothesis,  tliat  within  late  years 
M.  pahnata  has  increased  to  such  an  extent  that  it  has 
almost  completely  ousted  the  odier  two. 

No  less  a  person  than  the  late  Professor  Edward 
Forbes  (who  was  a  JManxman)  stated  that  "  T.  palus- 
tris  and  T.  functatus  were  by  no  means  uncommon  in 
their  different  habitats  everywhere "  on  the  Isle  of 
Man.  But  no  newts  now  exist  there.  If  tlie  older 
naturalists,  with  Professor  Forbes,  wrongly  identified 
these  newts,  the  former  may  gain  a  little  consolation 
from  the  fact  that  they  have  sinned  in  good  company. 

However,  I  am  strongly  inclined  to  believe  that  for 
some  considerable  time  past,  the  Palmate  has  been 
increasing  in  numbers,  and  widening  its  range  to  the 
prejudice  of  the  other  species.  Its  small  size  enables  it 
to  live  in  very  small  ponds  and  ditches,  it  has  the 
widest  distribution,  and  is  the  only  species  which  is 
found  in  mountain  pools.    It  would,  therefore,  seem  to 


DISTRIBUTION  OF  BRITISH  NEWTS    229 

be  able  to  stand  greater  variations  in  climate  and  en- 
vironment. It  is  exceedingly  unlikely  that  Professor 
Forbes  should  have  made  so  glaring  an  error.  It  is 
easier  to  suppose  that,  in  a  succession  of  unfavourable 
years,  when,  among  other  things,  an  unusually  small 
rainfall  occurred,  the  two  Manx  species,  M.  cristata  and 
M.  vulgaris,  became  extinct  on  the  island.  The  Palmate 
would  be  the  most  capable  of  withstanding  these  con- 
ditions, and  would  increase  and  multiply  in  other 
parts  of  the  country,  where,  previously,  it  had  already 
gained  a  footing.  A  careful  study  of  newts  in  their 
natural  habitats,  over  a  series  of  years,  affords  con- 
vincing proof  of  a  considerable  rise  and  fall  in  the 
number  of  individuals  of  each  species,  in  different 
seasons,  which  is,  as  often  as  not,  quite  inexplicable; 
at  all  events  in  terms  of  weather  and  climate.  I  think 
it  highly  probable  that,  on  account  of  a  recent  super- 
vention of  a  powerful  combination  of  unfavourable 
conditions — just  when,  during  one  of  these  fluxes,  the 
numbers  were  at  the  minimum — the  Common  and 
Greatcrested  Newts  have  become  extinct  in  many 
places,  where  they  were  once  common,  the  result  being 
that  the  hardier  Palmate,  left  master  of  the  field,  has 
shot  ahead  and  won  in  the  struggle  for  existence. 
This  increase  (and  the  subsequent  migration  and  dis- 
persal which  has  occurred)  presents  a  most  interesting 
and  unexpected  phenomenon. 

1909. 


BIRD  ROOSTS  AND  ROUTES* 

The  following  paper  does  not  pretend  to  be  an 
exhaustive  one,  but  is  the  result  of  my  own  observa- 
tions during  the  past  winter  in  a  North  Devon  district. 

All  birds  show  considerable  care  in  the  choice  of  a 
secure  roosting  site,  and  in  order  to  spare  labour  in 
looking  for  a  fresh  one  every  night,  they  frequently 
return  to  the  same  place  continuously. 

A  great  many  of  the  small  species  roost  in  company, 
"  cuddling,"  or  keeping  close  together  in  a  bunch  for 
warmth.  I  have  found  four  Wrens  roosting  in  this 
way  in  a  hole  in  a  tree,  and  have  disturbed  several 
sleeping  in  their  "  cock  "  nests,  but  as  far  as  my  notes 
go,  these  are  generally  vacant.  On  one  occasion  last 
summer  I  noticed  several  Long-tailed  Tits  (probably 
a  brood)  on  the  top  of  their  nest,  which  had  become 
quite  flattened  and  was  covered  with  droppings.  I 
expect,  therefore,  that  they  returned  to  the  nest  every 
night,  and  when  they  got  too  large,  roosted  on  the  top 
of  it.  Wrens  up  to  the  number  of  thirty  at  a  time, 
Long-tailed  Tits,  and  Golden-crested  Wrens,  are 
recorded  as  roosting  together  in  this  "  bunching " 
*  Reprinted  from  British  Birds 
231 


232  BIRD  ROOSTS  AND  ROUTES 

fashion  by  Mr.  G.  A.  B.  Dewar  (in  the  "  Birds  of  Our 
Wood  ").  One  night  I  saw  two  Blue  Tits  embracing 
each  other  in  this  way  in  an  apple-tree.  They  looked 
like  one  large  bird,  so  close  to  each  other  were  they. 
This  is  not,  however,  the  usual  habit  of  this  Tit,  for  it 
generally  roosts  in  holes. 

The  Sparrow,  as  is  well  known,  will  occupy  an  old 
House-Martin's  nest,  or  will  line  a  hole  in  the  thatch 
with  feathers.  Partridges  roost  on  the  ground,  while 
Pheasants  and  fowls  prefer  to  roost  in  trees. 

A  Hedge-sparrow,  which  I  had  under  observation, 
returned  every  evening  last  winter  with  the  utmost 
regularity  to  a  cranny  among  dead  ivy  on  an  elm. 
When  driven  out  it  would  return  in  a  few  moments, 
first  pitching  on  a  branch  of  the  tree,  and  then  swiftly 
sneaking  into  the  cranny,  so  that  its  return  very  fre- 
quently escaped  my  notice  entirely. 

Kestrels  roost  at  the  same  spot,  in  a  quarry,  for 
example,  for  many  consecutive  weeks. 

The  Pied  Wagtail  and  the  Grey  Wagtail  in  this 
district  collect  in  some  numbers  every  evening,  and 
roost  in  reed  beds,  like  the  Starlings.  They  drop  in 
from  all  directions,  but  do  not  come  from  more  than 
a  mile  distant.  As  a  rule  they  collect  on  the  ground, 
or  telegraph  wires,  near  the  reed  bed,  before  disap- 
pearing into  the  reeds,  calling,  and  flying  short- 
distances  in  one  flock.  This  flock  increases  as  the 
birds  come  up  one  by  one,  and  finally  they  drop  into 


BIRD  ROOSTS  AND  ROUTES  233 

the   reeds,   where   they    are   joined    by    Robins    and 
Wrens. 

A  great  many  species  of  birds  roost  in  company, 
notably  Starlings.  Others  are :  House-sparrows, 
Carrion  Crows  (especially  in  Devon  and  Somerset), 
Magpies,  Rooks,  and  Wood-pigeons. 

In  North  Devon,  in  the  colder  months  of  the  year, 
the  Rooks  never  roost  in  their  rookery  during,  at  all 
events,  the  months  of  November,  December,  January, 
February,  and  part  of  March,  but  they  collect  in  large 
numbers  and  roost  in  a  wood,  perhaps  two  or  three 
miles  away  from  the  rookery.  In  the  morning  the 
roost  breaks  up,  and  the  members  of  each  community 
repair,  with  the  utmost  regularity,  to  their  respective 
rookeries.  At  the  rookeries  they  stand  about  "  talk- 
ing," perhaps  till  nine  o'clock,  and  then  they  disperse 
to  feed  and  meet  again  in  the  evening  at  the  roost. 
If  the  morning  is  a  frosty  one  they  stay  on  the  rookery 
trees  longer  than  usual. 

At  Tapely  Park,  Jackdaws  collect  in  prodigious 
quantities,  numbering  many  thousands  (though  it 
is  extremely  difficult  to  judge  the  number),  and 
roost  in  the  beech-trees.  A  roost  of  Rooks  occupies 
the  same  group  of  trees.  The  interesting  feature 
cormected  with  these  Jackdaws  is  that  the  birds, 
in  going  to  and  from  their  roost,  always  take 
exactly  the  same  route.  A  large  flock  which,  during 
part  of  its  course,  is  forced  to  fly  over  the  town  of 


234  BIRD  ROOSTS  AND  ROUTES 

B ,  always  flics  across  exactly  the  same  part  of  the 

town  every  evening.     It  was  by  watching  and  follow- 
ing up  for  several  days  another  big  flock  (numbering 

200  or  300),  which  fed  daily  in  the  fields  at  B 

(about  three  and  a  half  miles  from  the  roost)  through- 
out the  whole  of  last  winter,  that  I  finally  discovered 
this  large  roost.     Every  morning  and  every  evening 
this  flock  as  regularly  as  a  Royal  Mail  performed  this 
journey.    They  follow  very  carefully  the  same  line  of 
flight,  even  to  the  barest  detail,  but  occasionally  they 
fly  very  high,  and  they  then  appear  to  follow  a  more 
direct  course,  for  it  is  noteworthy  that  these  birds  do 
not,  as  a  rule,  make  a  bee-line  by  any  means.     The 
reason  why  they  sometimes  fly  at  a  great  height  I 
cannot  imagine.     I  do  not  think  that  it  has  anything 
whatever  to  do  with  wind  or  weather.    Arrived  at  the 
roost,    the    birds    "  rocket "    down    perpendicularly, 
dropping  like  plummets,  and  commence  to  "  chock  " 
for  an  hour  or  more  before  darkness  falls.     Starlings 
and    Wood-pigeons,    when    dropping    in    to    roost, 
"  rocket "  down  in  this  same  eccentric  way,  and  many 
birds  behave  similarly  at  times,  when  they  may  be 
said  to  be  "  at  play."     The  habit  with  the  roosting 
birds   is,  however,  a  constant  one,  and  takes  place 
every  evening. 

Far  more  striking  evidence  as  to  the  use  of  flight- 
lines  in  these  miniature  migrations  is  to  be  seen  in  the 
case  of  the  Starling.    A  large  Starling  roost  is  a  very 


BIRD  ROOSTS  AND  ROUTES  235 

imposing  sight,  and  has  attracted  the  attention  of  a 
great  many  writers.  The  very  remarkable  turns  of 
flight  displayed  by  these  birds  at  roosting  time  con- 
stitute, perhaps,  one  of  the  most  striking  phenomena 
which  British  bird-life  has  to  show. 

In  this  district  there  are  four  or  five  such 
roosts.  I  have  not  discovered  the  birds  travelling 
more  than  six  miles  to  and  from  the  roost.  I  have 
repeatedly  noticed  how  strictly  the  birds  keep  to  their 
arbitrarily  prescribed  line  of  flight.  The  best  instance 
I  can  give  is  shown  in  the  accompanying  map. 

The  flocks  sweep  along  this  main  course  with 
astonishing  regularity  every  night,  flock  succeeding 
flock,  and  each  separate  flock  pursuing  the  same 
course,  as  a  rule  dividing  at  X,  one  half  going  to  one 
roost,  and  the  other  half  to  another  roost.  They  fly 
high — well  above  the  neighbouring  hills  and  valleys — 
although  it  will  be  noticed  that  they  follow  a  valley 
for  some  distance;  this  route,  moreover,  was  not 
merely  roughly  followed,  but  the  birds  came  accur- 
ately along  an  almost  mathematically  straight  line,  as 
far  as  X. 

On  February  19th  I  was  at  this  spot  watching  the 
Starlings.  I  was  particularly  interested  in  one  flock 
which  never  arrived  along  the  usual,  main,  flight-line, 
but  cut  into  it  at  right  angles  (as  indicated  in  the 
sketch  map).  This  flock,  on  this  particular  evening, 
however,  appeared  to  have  lost  its  bearings,  for  it 


236 


BIRD  ROOSTS  AND  ROUTES 


wandered  about,  as  I  show  in  the  sketch,  as  if  trying 

to  cross  C Hill,  which  the  birds  never  did  at  any 

time;  finally,  it  seemed  to  perceive  its  whereabouts, 
doubled  back  and  went  on,  crossing  the  400-foot 
ridge.  On  the  22nd,  this  same  flock  was  making  for 
the  roost,  flying  against  a  heavy  westerly  gale.  Hard 
weather  and  frost  seems  to  make  no  diminution  in 


^f afe -  ai(m,t  4,  in  che%. 
ftnue 


numbers  at  tlie  roosts.  I  may  mention  here  that  on 
every  occasion  that  I  have  visited  a  Starling  roost  last 
winter  (about  seven  times)  there  was  always  a 
Sparrow-hawk  flying  close  at  hand,  and  I  have 
repeatedly  seen  this  Hawk  harrying  flocks  as  they 
came  in  to  roost. 

Individual  flocks,  when  perhaps  three  miles  away 


BIRD  ROOSTS  AND  ROUTES  237 

from  their  roost,  and  out  of  the  main  stream  of 
"  migration,"  followed,  I  found,  in  the  few  cases  I  had 
under  observation,  the  same  route  every  night.  One 
small   flock,  for  example,  always  crossed  the  River 

T at  a  certain  point  near  a  signal-box,  for  several 

weeks  last  winter.  Routes,  however,  like  these,  on  the 
extreme  periphery  of  the  system,  vary  when  the  par- 
ticular flock  changes  its  feeding  quarters. 

Possibly  some  of  the  foregoing  will  have  to  be 
modified  after  more  prolonged  observation,  but  the 
main  point  will  hold — the  universal  use  of  flight-lines 
by  Starlings  and  Jackdaws  in  going  to  and  from  their 
roost. 

Whether  birds,  with  their  large  semicircular  canals, 
have  a  sense  of  direction  or  whether  their  migrations 
are  carried  out  by  the  aid  of  the  sun  or  by  the  earth's 
magnetism  or  any  other  power  is  moot,  yet  one  thing 
seems  certain  and  that  is  tliat  they  possess  a  powerful 
memory.  I  feel  sure  that  however  the  migrational 
movement  as  a  whole  is  effected,  the  way  in  which  the 
Swallow  returns  year  after  year  to  the  same  old  beam 
in  the  same  old  barn  is  simple  memory — topo- 
graphical knowledge  of  the  chief  natural  features  and 
the  general  mould  of  the  country  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  its  nesting  home. 

1908. 


THE  "ANIMATED  NATURE" 

Oliver  Goldsmith  might  have  been  a  naturalist 
had  the  opportunity  presented  itself.  But  it  was  his 
lot  to  earn  his  daily  bread  by  scribbling  catchpenny 
compilations  for  the  booksellers,  and  in  the  spare 
moments  to  fight  for  fame  by  modelling  his  works  of 
genius.  If  he  had  only  been  granted  a  few  more  spare 
moments,  he  could  have  spent  them  in  the  woods  and 
fields,  and  we  should  find  his  "Animated  Nature" 
full  of  original  observation,  and  in  every  respect  quite 
a  different  book. 

Of  his  few  opportunities  for  studying  nature  he 
made  the  very  best;  and  there  is  pathos  in  the  fact 
that,  through  watching  the  ways  of  the  spider  in  the 
dusty  little  garret  in  Green  Arbor  Court,  he  was  after- 
wards able  to  contribute  an  article  on  its  habits  to 
"  The  Bee."  Then  one  reads  of  his  observing  the 
antics  of  the  Rooks  from  the  Inner  Temple;  walking 
in  the  lanes  around  the  farmhouse  on  the  Edgware 
Road — another  of  his  lodgings;  and,  in  his  happy 
Irish  days,  following  the  gentle  art  of  Izaak  Walton, 
whose  pretty  writing  he  since  lived  to  honour  with 
praise.    During  these  short  periods  of  leisure,  he  saw 

239 


240  THE  "ANIMATED  NATURE" 

more,  thought  more,  and  admired  more  thaji  do  many 
in  a  hfetimc.  The  high  position  he  now  holds  in  the 
world  of  letters  he  owes  primarily  to  his  great  love  of 
the  country  and  the  rural  life — depicted  in  "  The 
Deserted  Village"  and  "The  Vicar  of  Wake&eld." 

The  chief  fault  in  "Animated  Nature"  is  that  it  is 
a  compilation.  Goldsmith  borrows  from  a  large 
number  of  authors,  including  Buff  on,  Aristotle,  Pliny, 
Linnaius,  Pennant,  and  Swammerdam;  he  would 
probably  have  done  better  if  he  had  quoted  fewer 
authorities,  and  those  more  judiciously.  The  whole 
eight  volumes  are  interspersed  with  many  absurd 
stories  about  beasts  and  birds,  which  his  innate  sim- 
plicity led  him  half  to  believe,  I  will  mention  a  few. 
Quoting,  I  believe,  Linnaeus,  he  says  that  a  Squirrel, 
when  it  wants  to  cross  a  river,  finds  a  piece  of  bark, 
sets  it  afloat,  and  goes  aboard;  it  reaches  the  other 
side  by  using  its  tail  like  a  fan  or  windmill !  Imagine 
this  timid,  unobtrusive  creature,  with  the  cunning  of  a 
Monkey,  watching  its  anchored  "  bark  "  as  it  waits  for 
a  flood-tide  or  a  favourable  wind. 

We  are  informed  that  the  Albatross,  on  flying  to  an 
inMnense  height,  tucks  its  head  under  one  wing,  and 
keeps  afloat  by  flapping  the  other;  thus  it  roosts. 
"  What  truth  tliere  may  be  in  this  statement  I  will  not 
take  upon  me  to  determine,"  is  his  comment. 

Goldsmith  was  quite  aware  of  his  ignorance  of  the 
natural  sciences,  and  he  makes  no  attempt  to  hide  it 


THE  "ANIMATED  NATURE"  241 

(for,  in  spite  of  his  vanity,  he  was  unwilling  appar- 
ently to  assume  an  affectation  of  great  learning) ;  but, 
nevertheless,  the  fear  he  shows  of  passing  decisive 
opinions,  even  on  such  fables  as  these,  is  amusing. 

Certain  Nightingales  are  related  as  being  so  clever 
that  they  could  talk  like  Parrots,  and  tell  each  other 
tales.  "  Such  is  the  sagacity  ascribed  to  the  Night- 
ingale," he  remarks  drily. 

These  wondrous  stories  are  at  all  events  amusing, 
and  Dr.  Johnson  prophetically  remarked,  "  He  is  now 
writing  a  Natural  History,  and  he  will  make  it  as 
interesting  as  a  Persian  tale."  But  the  extravagant 
imageries  of  a  Persian  tale  would  not  go  to  form  an 
ideal  history  of  animated  nature.  The  book  might 
have  been  even  more  fanciful,  for  in  the  preface  Gold- 
smith writes  that,  before  he  had  read  the  works  of  the 
great  French  scientist  Buff  on,  it  was  his  intention  to 
treat  what  he  then  conceived  to  be  an  idle  subject 
"  in  an  idle  manner " ;  for  let  us  "  dignify  Natural 
History,"  he  says,  "with  the  grave  appellation  of  an 
useful  science,  yet  still  we  must  confess  that  it  is  the 
occupation  of  the  idle  and  speculative  rather  than  of 
the  busy  and  ambitious." 

All  is  written  in  Goldsmith's  vivacious  style,  and 
the  first  two  volumes  are  to  a  certain  extent  excellent 
in  subject  matter,  for  he  was  able  to  make  use  of 
Buffon  as  far  as  the  end  of  the  history  of  quadrupeds. 
But  in  justice  to  Goldsmith,  it  must  be  said  that  he 

16 


242         THE   "ANIMATED   NATURE" 

had  this  help  where  he  least  needed  it,  as,  in  dealing 
with  the  earth,  with  man,  and  with  the  well-known 
wild  beasts,  he  had  his  own  engaging  descriptive 
powers,  his  own  knowledge  of  human  nature  and 
anatomy,  and  a  multitude  of  books,  other  than  Buffon, 
fairly  correct  in  their  accounts  of  the  larger  mammals. 

Consequently,  Goldsmith  can,  "with  some  share  of 
confidence,"  recommend  this  part  to  the  public,  and  I 
suggest  that  his  chapters  on  "  Sleep  and  Hunger,"  and 
"  Smelling,  Feeling,  Tasting,"  are  as  entertaining  as 
any  in  the  book.  In  his  history  of  birds  and  insects 
he  is  very  meagre  and  confused,  like  Pliny.  His 
account  of  the  reptiles  is,  as  one  would  expect,  full  of 
those  curious  mythical  tales,  m  which  Goldsmith 
revelled  more  than  in  scientific  facts.  In  many  places 
throughout  this  unique  Natural  History  one  relishes 
the  numerous  personal  references  which  he  introduced 
into  most  of  his  writings,  and  here  and  there  some 
really  fine  prose,  as  fine  as  any  he  ever  penned. 

The  naturalist  will  find  amusement  in  assigning 
descriptions  to  their  right  owners,  and  in  discovermg 
the  names  of  species  but  vaguely  characterized.  Then 
there  is  humour,  which,  although  unconscious,  should 
not  on  that  account  be  omitted  from  among  the 
merits  of  the  book — merits  that  deserve  wider  recog- 
nition. Of  his  personal  references,  I  must  not  pass 
over  his  touching  remarks  on  "  Hunger,"  which  he 
wrote  perhaps  at  a  time  when  he  felt  his  own  wants 


THE  "ANIMATED  NATURE"  243 

becoming  more  serious  day  by  day  :  "  In  the  begin- 
ning the  desire  for  food  is  dreadful  indeed,  as  we 
know  by  experience.  .  .  .  Those  poor  wretches, 
whose  every  day  may  be  said  to  be  an  happy  release 
from  famine,  are  known  at  last  to  die  in  reality  of  a 
disorder  caused  by  hunger,  but  which  in  common 
language  is  often  called  a  broken  heart."  That  death 
was  his  own,  said  Forster  in  his  "  Life."  He  (Gold- 
smith) pities  Aldrovandus,  the  naturalist,  whose 
undeserving  end  was  poverty  and  death  in  a  public 
hospital,  but  how  much  the  more  should  we  lament 
his  untimely  decease.  Goldsmith  might  have  lived  on 
his  own  earnings,  but  undoubtedly  he  was  extrava- 
gant. Yet  could  not  the  friendly  Reynolds,  or  the 
kind-hearted  Johnson  have  helped  him  through  the 
mire,  or  attempted  to  strengthen  those  weaknesses, 
which,  in  so  great  and  unfortunate  a  man,  we  should 
all  be  willing  to  overlook  ? 

Turning  again  to  "Animated  Nature,"  let  us  see 
what  Goldsmith  has  to  say  of  the  pugnacity  of  the 
Puffin.  As  soon  as  a  Raven  approaches  to  carry  off 
its  young,  the  Puffin,  making  a  curious  noise  like  a 
dumb  person  trying  to  speak,  catches  him  under  the 
throat  with  its  beak,  and  sticks  its  claws  into  its 
breast,  which  "  makes  the  Raven  try  to  get  away." 
At  length  both  fall  into  the  sea,  the  Raven,  of  course, 
drowning,  to  leave  the  Puffin  to  return  unharmed  to 
its  nest. 


244  THE  "ANIMATED  NATURE" 

The  Woodpecker  feeds  sometimes  in  the  following 
way.  It  lays  its  tongue  on  an  ant-hill,  and  waits 
until  there  are  a  sufficient  number  of  ants  collected  on 
it  (for  they  mistake  tlie  long  tongue  for  a  worm), 
when  the  clever  bird  suddenly  withdraws  "  the  worm  " 
and  the  ants  with  it,  thus  reaping  a  rich  harvest ! 

One  can  conceive  how  this  curious  story  originated, 
but  what  the  Butcher  Bird  may  be,  which  is  little 
bigger  than  a  Tit-mouse  and  lives  in  the  marshes  near 
London,  I  cannot  determine.    (The  Bearded  Tit  ?) 

Herons,  he  tells  us,  occasionally  take  their  fish  on 
the  wing  by  hovering  as  the  Kingfisher  does,  but  they 
do  this  only  in  the  shallows,  because  in  the  deeper 
parts  the  fish,  as  soon  as  they  see  the  Heron's  shadow, 
could  sink  immediately  and  swim  out  of  harm's  reach. 
The  reader  will  notice  many  more  such  extraordinary 
pieces  of  natural  history  to  interest  him,  and  amuse 
him. 

The  Turtle  is  lachrymose  and  forlorn,  for  it  sighs 
and  sheds  tears  when  turned  over  on  its  back. 

The  Toad  has  only  to  sit  at  the  bottom  of  a  bush 
and  to  look  a  little  attractive,  when  the  giddy 
butterflies  "  fly  down "  its  tliroat.  A  fascinating 
Toad  ! 

Goldsmith  found  some  difficulty  in  deciding  into 
what  class  he  should  put  the  Lizards.  "  They  are 
excluded  from  the  insects,"  he  argues,  "  by  their  size, 
for,  though  the  Newt  may  be  looked  upon  in  this 


THE  "ANIMATED  NATURE"  245 

contemptible  light,  a  Crocodile  would  be  a  terrible 
insect  indeed." 

Johnson,  though  in  general  he  thoroughly  under- 
stood Goldsmith's  character,  and  correctly  valued  his 
abilities,  was  hardly  right  in  describing  him  on  the 
memorial  in  Westminster  Abbey  as  physicus.  How- 
ever, Johnson  was  quite  unable  to  arrive  at  an  exact 
estimate  in  this  matter,  for  Natural  History  was  a 
subject  which  he  understood  even  less  than  did  Gold- 
smith, notwithstanding  that  he  knew  Woodcocks  must 
migrate;  and  thought  he  knew  that  Swallows  "con- 
globulated  together"  at  the  bottoms  of  ponds  and 
rivers  in  winter-time.  In  the  sense  that  he  wrote  a 
Natural  History,  Goldsmith  would  perhaps  consider 
himself  entitled  to  be  termed  a  naturalist,  though 
some  of  us  would  be  glad  to  earn  such  a  distinction  in 
so  easy  a  manner. 

He  loved  Nature  and  all  God's  creatures,  but  he 
possessed  an  "  invincible  aversion  "  to  caterpillars — 
which  a  naturalist  would  ascribe  to  his  uneducated 
taste ;  he  abhorred  cruelty ;  and,  with  an  Englishman's 
prejudice,  hated  Germany,  "which  is  noted,"  he  writes, 
"  if  not  for  truth,  at  least  for  want  of  invention."  It  is 
from  this  fact,  among  others,  that  he  considers  a 
German  book  to  show  some  good  marks  of  veracity  ! 

There  are  very  few  who  can  spare  time  to  study 
Nature  deeply  {miserabile  dictti),  and  the  majority 
must  content  themselves  "  to  view  her  as  she  offers, 


246  THE  "ANIMATED  NATURE" 

without  searching  into  the  recesses  in  which  she  ulti- 
mately hides  " ;  they  must  "  take  her  as  she  presents 
herself,  and,  storing  their  minds  with  effects  rather 
than  causes,  instead  of  the  embarrassment  of  systems 
about  which  few  agree,"  they  must  be  satisfied  "  with 
the  history  of  appearances  concerning  which  all  man- 
kind have  but  one  opinion."  It  is  for  this  class  of 
people  that  "  Animated  Nature  "  was  written. 

(1906.     Extracts  from  Essay  on  "  Goldsmith  as  a  Naturalist," 
printed  in  the  Zoologist.) 


eitUNG  AND  SONS,  LTD.,   PRINTERS,  GOILDFORD,   ENGLANP 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 
Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


JMia8^972  30 


^h^h 


/i> 


ItCPUD    FEB2872-3PM81 
DAVIS 


Sep  3  0W4 


lOfH    AHC 


l,tg\i^ 


B-ir^P^^^ 


m  ° '  D 


>t 


9.MgT3    ^ 7 


t^EFOro  0CT1  9  73  •]  PWTQ 
SEP281974  llfEBUZOOg 


7. 


T  T^oi  A     <n      Q  '-1  General  Library 

(P?572t£^K7tA'32  Universuy^of  California  j  y 


,-8,32 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


ill 


